


even though i left you behind (i can't quite get you out of my mind)

by coykoi



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a happy ending?, Best Friends, Broken Up, Double Date, F/M, Light Angst, Love, Michelle Jones is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Pining, Reconciliation, no spiderman this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coykoi/pseuds/coykoi
Summary: It was a mistake saying yes, and Michelle realized that the second she hit the send button.But.There's nothing she can do about it now.'hey, mj. i don't know if you still have my number, anymore, or if you deleted it. it would make sense if you did, but i'm in new york right now and was wondering if you wanted to catch up.''yeah, parker, i still have it. i'm not against hanging out.''cool, cool. that's awesome. would u mind if i brought my girlfriend? she doesn't really know anyone here and i could introduce you guys''?''you could bring your boyfriend? and it could be a double date? i'm really not trying to make this awkward or anything but it might be fun''why not.'
Relationships: Felicia Hardy/Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Harry Osborn, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 72
Kudos: 229





	1. Chapter 1

Michelle Jones can admit to herself that she’s made a lot of mistakes in her life. Granted, some were bigger than others, like when she consulted YouTube to find some chemistry experiments for her last-minute science project and nearly got suspended from high school. Or, letting her roommate shoot his shot at cooking a crème brûlée and consequently having to call 911 moments after. 

This feels like one of those moments, and boy, she’s not one to overreact, but it kind of makes her want to throw all of their wine from the fridge into a burning pile of old articles she wrote and see if it explodes.

It was a mistake saying yes, and Michelle realized that the second she hit the send button.

But.

There’s nothing she can do about it now.

It started with an innocent text from an ex-boyfriend, who she now regrets not cutting all contact with after their break-up. That’s typically how it goes with her, being too awkward to even attempt at salvaging whatever there was before the relationship.

The only exception being Peter Parker.

They were friends long before they started dating, and it was the only serious relationship Michelle had been able to maintain. When they broke up, it wasn’t because of any lack of love between them, but because they were heading in different directions and it was inevitable. He needed to move out of the city, and that was the last thing she wanted to do, her friends and family still in Queens.

‘ _hey, mj. i don't know if you still have my number, anymore, or if you deleted it. it would make sense if you did, but i'm in new york right now and was wondering if you wanted to catch up._ ’

‘ _yeah, parker. i still have it. i'm not against hanging out._ ’

‘ _cool, cool. that's awesome. would u mind if i brought my girlfriend? she doesn't really know anyone here and i could introduce you guys_ ’

And far be it for those words to throw her for a loop as she eloquently replied with:

‘ _?’_

‘ _you could bring your boyfriend? and it could be a double date? i'm really not trying to make this awkward or anything but it might be fun_ ’

Yeah, maybe it would be fun, except for the fact that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Michelle isn’t sure what rabbit hole he got that tidbit of information from, but she only knows how to make things worse from there.

‘ _why not._ ’

There are so many reasons _why not_ , but her fingers had moved faster than her mind, and before she knew it, he was sending an address of a cafe and a time to meet. That meant Michelle had less than six hours to find a poor sap at a bar or a grocery store and somehow convince him to pretend to be her boyfriend.

It’s a lot harder than it sounds, and she’s not fucking rich.

“Hey, MJ, I know that pacing back and forth is the only way you get your exercise, but could you sit your ass down and maybe finish this puzzle with me that you insisted we start?”

Michelle doesn’t hesitate to flip Harry off, knowing that while it wouldn’t wipe the smirk off his face, he would see that she isn’t in the mood for his shits and giggles. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to take the hint this time, standing up and stretching, a common shtick he uses to purposely flex his muscles.

“It’s three-hundred pieces, Harry. If the unfinished look bothers you so much, then do the rest yourself and post an achievement on your Tinder account,” she says, her voice deadpan. “I’m sure girls would love to know you’re a puzzle master.”

“While that doesn’t sound like a bad idea, I’m gonna have to say no. I’ve got shit to do, Jones, and I’m pretty sure you agreed to help me.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “As appealing as it sounded to attend that company dinner as your plus-one—”

“In your pajamas to help piss off my father,” he finishes with a nod.

“I’m going to have to take a raincheck.”

Harry’s face falls. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m going on a double-date with my ex and his new girlfriend,” she says, swallowing thickly. “And I need time to buy a boyfriend.”

“What, like an...escort? I could hook you up with one...if you wanted,” Harry offers, tentative and confused. She sighs, shaking her head. “I mean...seeing as I’m no longer going to the company dinner, my evening has freed up. I guess I could...fill that spot.”

Michelle chews the inside of her cheek, thinking. Harry is more or less one of her best friends, so it wouldn’t be too hard to pass him off as her boyfriend. “I’m not buying you a Lamborghini for your services.”

“Free of charge.” He wets his lips, averting his gaze. She wonders if he thinks this is going to be a mistake. “I’m nice like that.”

“Okay. Well...thank you, I guess...”

“Who—who is this going to be with, again?”

“Peter.” Her inhale is sharp. “And his girlfriend.”

Harry whistles, long and sympathetic. “Oh, boy. What the fuck did you get us into, MJ?”


	2. Chapter 2

_“You think a couple thousand miles is just a little space? Peter, you’re going to be in California because you got a fantastic job offer, and—and I’m going to be here. In New York. I’m proud of you, and I’m happy that your work with Stark is sending you places. I just…” She trails off, feeling like her words are going to choke her if she keeps talking._

_“I know.” He runs a hand through his curls, biting his lip to keep his eyes from welling up. “I know, MJ. Are—are you sure you just don’t want to...come? We could get an apartment. We could get a cat.”_

_Michelle laughs, watery and unstable. “I hate cats, Parker. You know this.”_

_“Yeah, I do,” Peter says, nodding, not meeting her eyes._

_The thing is, he also knows she can’t leave her parents. It doesn’t matter if she’s a full-grown-ass adult or not. Being on the opposite side of the country from them gives her an undeniable feeling of anxiety, a fear she can’t quite quell._

_“Long-distance isn't going to work in this situation, Peter. Not...not if you’re going to be over there for who knows how long.”_

_“I know,” he repeats, a broken record. “I just...I’m not sure what else to do. I don’t want this to be over.”_

_Michelle swallows her tears, grasping his hand tight enough to make her knuckles turn white. She hates that she’s ducking away, hates that she can’t look him in the face. “Me, neither. But we both know you deserve work in that lab. Tony thinks so, too.”_

_Peter places his forefinger under her chin, tilting her head so their lips meet. Saltwater mixes somewhere in between the desperate closeness they’re both trying to keep._

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you, too.” She can’t breathe evenly, her words cracking with emotion._

_“What if...we make an agreement?”_

_“Elaborate, please,” she says with a quiet, barely-there laugh._

_“What if...when I eventually move back to New York—because we know Tony is going to miss me too much,” Peter begins, wiping his eyes. “If we’re both single and we’re both up for it, we could just...try again? And see where it goes from there?”_

_Michelle knows what she wants, knows that she can’t just let him float out of her life forever. She presses her lips together, nodding vehemently. “That doesn’t sound like a half-bad deal, Parker.”_

_“And in the meantime, we’re still gonna be friends. I’ll send you so many pictures of Hollywood Sign that you’ll want to block me,” he continues with an easier smile, brushing his thumb gently against the back of her hand._

_“Good grief. Is it too late to back out?”_

_“Very much so, yes.”_

_“Well. I guess that’s okay.” It feels like the weight on her chest has lightened a few tons, still there but not as painful._

_“We’re going to be just fine, MJ.” He sounds so sure._

_“Yeah. A couple thousand miles is just a little space, right?”_

  


* * *

  


“Harry, stop checking your goddamn hair. It looks fine,” Michelle says, glancing at him. He’s staring at his reflection in the cup of tea he ordered ten minutes ago, not a single drop sipped.

“Well, excuse me for wanting to make a good impression,” he grumbles, sitting back in his seat anyway. “You know, if you would’ve just deleted his number a year ago, like I suggested, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Oh, fuck off. Peter and I are still friends.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I definitely text my friends all of two times every six months. Actually, I’m pretty sure I text my _grandmother_ more often than that.”

Michelle scowls at him, annoyed by the way his knee hasn’t stopped bouncing up and down the whole time they’ve been waiting. “Good for you.”

“Are they late or are we just early? I didn’t put on this much cologne just for them to flake out on us,” he continues, glancing at his watch before drumming his fingers against the table. She grits her teeth, placing her hand over his, just to make him _stop_. “Yikes, MJ. Your palms are _sweaty_.”

“Well. My bad,” she mutters, retracting her hand to wipe it against her jeans. She can admit that her mood isn’t the best, having declined rapidly ever since they left and getting worse as Harry continues to agitate her.

“Hey.” He taps her cheek lightly, his expression softening just a bit in sympathy. She’s not sure if that’s better or ten times worse. “Look, I know. This situation fucking sucks. I’ll stop being a dick to lighten your load.”

Michelle averts her eyes, yet she cracks a small smile. “I didn’t know you could do that, Osborn.”

“Jones, you have no idea the things I can do.”

“At least I’m well aware of the things you _can’t_ do,” she says with a snort, rolling her shoulders. He can tell what she’s thinking, judging by the way his eyebrows raise.

“Oh, please. It’s not like you can cook for shit either, MJ. And, actually, I think it’s worse when you try,” Harry tells her, his smile turning smug. “Because you get mad. You start swearing at the oven, like it’s the _oven’s_ fault your lasagna never tastes good.”

“What was it you said earlier? Uh, _I’ll stop being a dick_?”

“I’m a man of my word. This isn’t me being a dick. This is me being truthful, because what else are frie— _boyfriends_ for?” He flashes her a charming grin, conspicuously glancing over her shoulder. Her stomach bottoms out at the notion.

“Hey, MJ!”

Michelle turns around in her seat, her thoughts already discombobulated before she even sees him. He walks over with a blinding smile and a beautiful blonde by his side. Something uncomfortable churns in her gut.

“Long time, no see, Parker,” she says, hoping her own smile doesn’t seem too forced.

Peter breathes out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I agree. Three years is too long to go without seeing my best friend.”

“Well, shit. If you guys are best friends, then does that also mean my old pal from middle school that I haven’t talked to in six years is _still_ my BFF? Damn, I gotta break that off.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Michelle grits out, because that sent all of the _wrong_ signals. He gives her a brief apologetic look, but she thinks he doesn’t really mean it. One of the things she’s taken to like about him is that he always speaks his mind, always truthful.

“Right.” He clears his throat awkwardly before holding a hand out to Peter. “I’m Harry. I’m sure you know that by now.”

“Yeah.” Peter shakes his hand, smiling a little less genuinely. “I’m Peter. I’m sure you know that, too.” He then gestures to the woman standing to his right. “And this is Felicia. Felicia, this is MJ—well, Michelle—and, uh…” His hand drops to his side. “Harry.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Felicia says, her expression calculating, head tilted ever-so-slightly. “Sorry we’re a little late. That was my fault. Couldn’t find the keys for the life of me.”

Michelle merely nods her head at the empty seats. “You’re lucky we got here fast enough for a corner table.”

Peter’s eyes crinkle at the corners, reminiscent. “What would we do without you guys?”

“What _would_ you do,” Harry remarks under his breath with a subtle yet visible roll of his eyes, one that everyone happens to notice. He takes his phone out, uncaring, and starts on an Instagram scroll. 

It’s going to be a _painstakingly_ long evening, Michelle quickly realizes, sighing in despondency to herself.

  


* * *

  


“So, you two,” Felicia murmurs, gesturing with her spoon at Michelle and Harry. “How’d you guys meet?”

Michelle glances at Harry, who’s wearing a small smirk. He goes to open his mouth, probably about to spew some ridiculous story, so she pinches his leg under the table. He thankfully gets the hint, looking to her instead.

“Well, uh...my parents _kindly_ threw me out of their house, saying it was time,” Michelle says, trying not to stumble on her words, which are only the truth. “And I just...found myself renting an apartment with this guy. He had an ad, so I figured...why the hell not.”

The corner of Felicia’s lips curve up. “And were there sparks?”

“Oh, honey. There were fireworks,” Harry butts in, giving a shit-eating grin. He’s really going all in, arm around the back of Michelle’s chair, like that’s the only place it belongs. She has to try to act like he’s not pulling on her hair every other minute.

Peter, who’s been silent through the whole exchange, finally glances up from his sandwich and smiles. He doesn’t look at Harry, just her. “Fireworks, huh?”

“More like he fell madly in love with me before I even knew his name,” Michelle deadpans, biting the inside of her cheek.

“You just have that effect on people, MJ.”

She blows out a stiff breath, rolling her eyes at Harry. “Stop sucking up.”

“Alright, alright.” He finally drops his arm from around her, leaning his elbows on the table instead. His expression is nothing if not curious as he looks between Peter and Felicia. “Well, what about you guys? How’d you two meet?”

Peter blushes, his gaze firmly locked on the tabletop. “We, uh, work in the same lab. I...well, I—”

“He’s trying to say he spilled chemicals all over me on my first day,” Felicia supplies with a smirk. “Quite a klutz, I gotta say, but none of them were toxic. Would’ve castrated him if they were.”

“Instant chemistry. I can see it,” Harry says, nodding, while Michelle feels like her head’s going to implode if she has to hear one more of his comments. “So...why are you guys here? Not to be rude or anything, but if your lab’s in California, why aren’t you in...California?”

“Well, Tony Stark—he, um...he said that there’s a project he’s working on right now, and something about his mathematical calculations aren’t working out,” Peter explains, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “He called to see if I could come up and take a look.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t Stark, like, the master of tech? Why the fuck couldn’t he just, I don’t know, video chat?”

Peter frowns. “I don’t know, man. Why do you even care?”

“I mean, you’re here. You don’t need to be, but you are. You asked your _ex_ to come on a date with you and your girlfriend, and I just think it’s all a little weird,” he says, his tone serious, and Peter flinches, like those words were a slap in the face.

“Look, Harry, it’s...I’m not trying to be invasive or intrusive—”

“Please. If someone’s being invasive here, it’s Mr. Rolex himself,” Felicia interrupts, looking distastefully at Harry and his over-expensive watch. “The fuck kind of authority do you think you have?”

“Maybe I just don’t want MJ to get wrapped up in whatever shit—”

“Harry,” Michelle exclaims, exasperated. She’s tired of this, tired of the evening _and_ the company. “Could you please _shut up_? I didn’t ask for you to be my goddamn savior. Peter and I are friends, despite what you think. That’s _all_ this is.” Her chair scrapes across the floor as she stands up, leaving the cafe that’s suddenly all too hot in favor of some fresh air.

  


* * *

  


Michelle’s standing with her back against the brick wall, underneath the overhang. She’s getting the whiff of someone who’s lighting a cigarette not even two feet away. Her eyes sting a bit from the smoke drifting her direction, but she doesn’t move.

The bell near the cafe door chimes as someone opens it. She hears a ‘ _thank you_ ’ as it’s held open for another person to come in before clicking shut again.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she sighs, scuffing her shoe against the concrete. “Tonight was kind of a shit-fest, huh?”

Peter smiles wryly, standing beside her, his body blocking the smoke. “Yeah. In hindsight, I guess...maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Not even a little bit, Parker.” Michelle exhales a breath, too shaky to be normal. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry. About...whatever happened in there, I mean. Harry was just...I don’t know…”

She _does_ know. She knows that he’s just trying to look out for her best interests, that he definitely has more common sense in this situation than she does.

“It’s okay. In all fairness, he had a point,” Peter admits, leaning his head back against the wall siding. “I shouldn’t have suggested this be a double-date. That was stupid. We should’ve done something as friends, just the two of us.”

Michelle knows in her heart that that would’ve been exponentially worse. But, of course, she could never admit it to herself, never mind say it out loud. 

They _are_ friends, even though the long-distance communication didn’t work out. 

They’re friends, despite him never telling her he found someone new.

They’re friends, but at that moment, Michelle wishes that Harry was right in all of his speculation about when a friendship should end.

“Yeah. Well, I wouldn’t want you to leave Felicia alone, bored and by herself in the city,” she says as the cigarette guy walks by, smoke blurring her vision. “How long are you guys even going to be here?”

“Three weeks.”

“Oh. Wow, I, uh...I had no idea you could rent out a hotel room for that long.”

“Actually.” Peter fiddles with the buttons on his jacket, lips pressed together. “Tony put together a room for us at the compound. Easy access for his lab, you know?”

Michelle offers him a brittle smile. “No, yeah, I know. For sure. I know.” She’s too familiar with falling asleep at the compound while he had aimlessly hammered away at a new drone or tinkered with an energy core. “Maybe I’ll bump into you sometime soon, then. Considering New York was never big enough for the both of us.”

“Wait.” He steps in front of her as she turns to go back inside. His eyes flit across her face, searching for something that she doesn’t want to give. “I just...I was hoping you’d want to take me up on my offer. To hang out, I mean.”

“Why?”

The word slips from her lips without thinking, abrupt and chilled, just like the breeze that blows past them. Michelle pulls her sleeves over her hands, crossing her arms.

Peter blinks, a little taken aback. His cheeks redden and his breath comes out in little wisps as he looks down, away from her. “I know we haven’t been the closest lately, but I thought that...” He shakes his head. “I get it if you don’t want to.”

“You’re going to be busy, remember? Fixing Stark’s screw-up. And, besides, I have a job, too, believe it or not,” Michelle says, exhaling in mild frustration. Granted, she doesn’t work for a company as big as the Bugle or NY Times, but that doesn’t mean her boss isn’t for ungodly hours and _intrusion upon seclusion_ in her journalism just as much. One more push towards that, and she just might quit.

“What, you’re going to be busy _every day_ for the next three weeks?”

The cafe bell chimes once more as the door opens, blowing heat their way.

“Here I was, thinking that you were going to come back and finish that cinnamon roll you ordered for us to split. I had to eat the rest by myself,” Felicia calls out as she waltzes over, smirking. “Better make that up to me tonight, Pete.” She dangles an arm around his neck, tall enough to do so.

“I’m sure you enjoyed it, anyway,” he replies, cracking a small, sincere smile.

Harry bursts out of the cafe next, grumbling. “For fuck’s sake, those people don’t know when to stop asking if we want anything else.” His eyes catch Michelle’s, expression honeyed down. He walks over and drapes his jacket over her shoulders, squeezing them ever so slightly. “You want to get out of here?”

Michelle nods, swallowing thickly. “Please.” She avoids looking at the way Peter and Felicia are huddled together, tightening the jacket around herself. “We’ll see you guys.”

“Probably not,” Harry tacks on, though whether it’s directed at her or them, she doesn’t know. 

Their cab is hailed within seconds, directions given to their apartment. Michelle keeps her gaze away from the window, glancing at Harry instead.

“Thanks for sacrificing your evening. The company dinner probably would’ve been more fun.”

“Bet,” he offers, chuckling wryly. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with Peter, by the way. I guess I really can’t stop being a dick.”

Michelle shakes her head, thinking back to what he said before their evening went downhill. “You were being truthful.”

“Do you want to, uh...talk about anything? In the small confines of this cab, at least, because I know you’re going to retreat to your room the second we get home.”

“Inevitably. But, no.” She smiles, weak and barely there in the dim light of the cab’s backseat. “There’s nothing to talk about.” And Harry nods, understanding, not pushing matters despite him knowing her too well, knowing that she can’t lie.

Her phone dings a moment later with an inopportune text. 

‘ _i’m sorry that tonight ended the way it did. if you don’t want to hang out again, that’s okay. i’ll understand. just let me know._ ’

‘ _Got that, Parker._ ’

‘ _just making sure, mj. you know i’ve missed you._ ’

‘ _couldn’t say that to my face?_ ’

There’s no response.

In all fairness, she wasn’t expecting one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i say light angst?


	3. Chapter 3

_“It’s so freaking hot over here. Like, I don’t know how people can live like this. My air conditioning never turns off!” Peter faces the camera, hands on his hips. She notices how his forehead is shining with a layer of sweat._

_“I think,” Michelle prompts, resting her phone against her pillow. “That you’re just a big baby. Invest in some shorts. Roll up your sleeves. You’re in LA now, Parker. It’s time to get your hands dirty.” She sits up and gathers her hair back, pulling it into a ponytail. “Besides, it’s fucking hot here, too.”_

_“Yeah, right. What’s the temperature?”_

_She raises an eyebrow. “85°.”_

_Peter lets out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Geez.” He flops down on the bed, taking his phone with him. “It’s only 79° here.”_

_Michelle scoffs, despite the way her smile comes out affectionate. “You’re kidding. Do you go outside in a puffer jacket every day, or are you just that much of a wimp?”_

_“Hey, I’m a sensitive soul! And, yeah, maybe a wimp, too. You know I don’t like change, MJ. It’s so weird. My apartment, for one, sucks, but the view is actually nice. When I look out my bedroom window, I don’t see a brick wall.”_

_“Don’t diss the brick walls, Parker. At least they’ve got some nice street art.”_

_“True,” he mumbles, burying his head in his pillow. “I guess I just miss New York already. I miss you and May and Ned, and I’m seriously considering buying a cat.”_

_“Don’t you dare. What good is a cat going to do for you? They’re solitary creatures. They’ll eat your rodents and scratch your face and bring you hell. And—don’t even try bringing that ‘oh, they’re just misunderstood’ argument to the table. Snakes are misunderstood. Spiders are misunderstood. Cats are pure fucking evil.”_

_Peter smiles at her, amusement coloring his features. However, it’s clear that he didn’t hear anything she just said. “I think that settles that, then. I’m getting a cat.”_

_Michelle’s expression drops and she immediately stands up, carrying her phone to the kitchen. She hovers him over the sink, flicking on a switch. “Do you see this, Peter? I’m going to drop you down the garbage disposal.”_

_“Ouch. That’s—that’s so...rude, MJ.”_

_“Bet you’re glad you’re in LA right now so that I can’t do this to you in person,” she responds dryly. “You’d probably be small enough to fit.”_

_Peter places a hand over his heart, even though his abrupt laugh counteracts it completely. “Now you’re just attacking me! I’m, like, an inch away from average height, okay? So shut your face.”_

_Michelle doesn’t bother to hide her smirk as she turns the disposal off. “Whatever you want, Parker.” She pauses, though, upon hearing her mother call her name._

_“Hey, Michelle? Can you come here? We have something we’d like to talk to you about.”_

_“I’ll be right there,” she calls back, biting the inside of her cheek. Peter is still pictured on her screen, his hand supporting his head, keeping it upright. “I’m sure you heard that. I’ve gotta go.”_

_“That’s okay. I’ll text you tonight. Probably send a picture of me and my new fish or something,” he says, eyes warm and glowing in the natural light._

_Michelle cracks a smile. “Okay.”_

_“I miss you.”_

_“You’ve already said that before,” she reminds him with a quiet laugh, about to reciprocate the words with just as much heart. But, then her mom is calling for her again._

_“I know. But it’s true,” Peter mutters with a smile and blows her the cheesiest kiss imaginable, despite their agreement._

_And then their call ends._  
  


* * *

  
“Hey. You know it’s almost one in the morning, right? What the hell are you still doing up?” Harry drops his keys on the credenza, a bag of flour and bananas in his arms.

Michelle peers over the rim of her glasses at him, her laptop still powered up and sitting on the coffee table. She has an unholy amount of empty mugs surrounding her that he seems to be taking in with evident judgement.

“Says the one who just got back from, what, the grocery store? Who the fuck goes shopping after midnight?”

“I’m going to make banana bread.” Harry pauses and then scoffs, abandoning his bags in favor of taking her laptop. “But we’re not talking about me. I’m hiding this. You clearly need some sleep if those bags under your eyes are anything to judge by.”

“Harry, give that back.” Michelle goes to grab it, only for him to hold her laptop above his head. It doesn’t help that she’s shorter than him by just a few inches, something she’s never cared about until that moment. “Seriously, I have work to do, okay? My boss just upped my deadline for this article, and I can’t get the wording right, so if you’d just—”

“Your boss is bluffing, like she always does. And—isn’t this supposed to be one you’re co-authoring with Brant? Let her do the rest.”

Michelle grits her teeth, annoyed. “That’s not how it works— _Harry_! Go make your fucking banana bread and just let me—”

“MJ. This is for your own good.” Harry walks into his bedroom, dropping her computer on the bed. When he comes back out, the door locks behind him. From the inside.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t lost the key,” he says with a coy smile. “Yet.”

“You’re an absolute ass,” she mutters, gathering her dirty mugs to put in the dishwasher. “If I get fired, it’s gonna be your fault, and we’ll end up mooching off of your father’s money for the rest of our lives.”

“How many times has Cooper threatened to fire you and didn’t hold up her end of the deal?” He starts to count on his fingers before abruptly stopping, releasing a mocking gasp. “Wait, it doesn’t _matter_. Look at you, still at that miserable place.”

Michelle scowls, turning away to grab her pen and papers that are littered all over the couch. “Look at you, still _unemployed_.”

Harry rolls his eyes as she knows he’s still boycotting the only business offering him a job—Oscorp. His father keeps handing over money, like bribery is the only way he can get his son to work with him.

“Okay, listen. I’ll give your laptop back tomorrow. Promise. But, right now? I’m going to make banana bread, and you’re going to go the fuck to bed.”

“I don’t exactly want to wake up with the apartment burnt down around me,” Michelle deadpans. 

“It’s like you don’t trust me in the kitchen by myself,” Harry says, a hand over his heart, one notion she’s too familiar with. 

“You don’t give me a reason to.”

“Ouch. Okay. Fine, I won’t make anything tonight.” He sighs exaggeratedly and makes his way over to the couch. “The things I do for you.”

“You mean like lower my life expectancy?”

Harry snorts, reaching for the remote that’s sitting on the end table. “Man, you’re really hurting my feelings.”

“Oh, no,” Michelle utters absently, grabbing the remote from his loose grip. “By the way. I’ll give you this back tomorrow. Promise. But, right now?” Her lips quirk slightly at the way his face is falling in realization. “I’m going the fuck to bed.”

“Come on, MJ—”

She lets her bedroom door close in the midst of his sentence.  
  


* * *

  
Michelle wakes up around ten in the morning with a crick in her neck and a bird’s nest for hair. It’s par for the course with her, though, considering the bed she sleeps in is the cheapest it can get and curls aren’t tossing-and-turning friendly.

She shuffles into the kitchen, eyes already searching for her laptop, even if she’s not aware of it yet. There’s no sign of anything except the fact that Harry had clearly been trying to bake bread before she got up. 

“It smells like burnt bananas,” she says, trying to massage the tension out of her shoulders herself. Harry looks over, half-grimacing and half-smiling. 

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Don’t even. What is that?” Michelle narrows her eyes at what looks like a pile of charcoal sitting on a plate. “See, I thought you _weren’t_ going to…”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t. But that was last night. Well, technically, early this morning,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed. “I tried, okay? I didn’t actually have much faith in myself, but I tried.”

“Well. A for effort.”

Harry sighs heavily and opens the fridge, sliding a carton of store-bought blueberry muffins on the counter. “Here’s breakfast, m’lady.”

Michelle cracks a smile and takes one. “Thanks. But, uh, the real question is...where’s my _laptop_?”

“Right...here,” he exhales, also placing it on the counter. She gives him a two-fingered salute before opening it up, finding herself at the same place she left off.

The only thing stopping Michelle from finishing the article at that point is the fact that there’s now an email notification blinking in the bottom right corner of her screen. Typically, the only non-work related emails she gets are digital coupons from her favorite book store and spam from a god-awful gossip forum that Harry had signed her up for as a joke. 

That’s why she finds it odd that there’s an email from none other than Tony Stark himself. It’s also mildly concerning, if she’s being honest.

After opening it, Michelle has to squint to read the fine print and quickly figures that it was an auto-generated email, probably sent by FRIDAY or some other AI he has stashed away.

Still, that doesn’t keep her confusion from building up.

“Harry.”

He looks away from his phone, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“For some reason—my guess is a technological error—I am...invited to Stark Industries’ exclusive...auction. With—quote unquote—nothing less than _exquisite_ dining.” She blows out a short breath, shaking her head. “It’s one of those things where he gets to show off all of his latest tech toys for an easy money grab, apparently.”

Harry lets out an abrupt laugh and scoots his stool over to look at the screen. “Hah, what the fuck? Does he think you’ve got that kind of money?”

“Oh, he _knows_ I don’t, which is why it’s either a mistake, or it wasn’t his...idea,” Michelle says, trailing off. Harry gives her a look, one she doesn’t appreciate. She pushes herself away from the counter, already reaching for her phone. His number is still on speed-dial, so it doesn’t take long to hear ringing.

Peter picks up on the third. “MJ?”

“Hey. So, uh, funny thing. I just received an email from your boss, and it could totally be an accident that it was sent to me, but some clarification would be nice. All I’m wondering is why exactly I’m on the list for Stark’s up and coming shindig.”

“Oh. Yeah, that is a funny thing,” he murmurs with a somewhat nervous laugh. “Well, I...sort of asked if he could add you. To the list, I mean.”

“You...asked,” she repeats, dumbfounded. “See, this is why everyone probably thinks you’re Tony’s favorite. He gives you special treatment.”

“I wouldn’t say _that_ …”

“Yeah, okay. Well, either way, I’m still confused.”

“It’s not...like, mandatory to come— _obviously_. But, uh, I figured...if you weren’t doing anything, maybe you’d want to pop in to make fun of his overpriced tech. Or, even better, the people buying it. Who knows, you might have a...good time.”

“I remember the last time you said something vaguely similar, and I _distinctly_ remember not having a good time.”

“Well, this isn’t going to be another date,” Peter immediately says, and she can practically _hear_ his wince.

“It doesn’t have to be a date for me to not have a good time,” Michelle responds, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know, Parker. I don’t exactly want to be third-wheeling around you and Felicia all evening.”

“MJ—”

“Besides, I might have to work, anyway.”

“Do you? It’s two weeks from today.”

Michelle turns to Harry, helpless, but he seems just as bewildered, running a hand through his dark hair uselessly. She bites the inside of her cheek, frustration starting to build up.

“Never mind. I don’t have work, but...is there a deadline to RSVP, or do I have time to mull it over?”

“No. Just...let me know. It’s Tony, so...he’d be open to you coming either way.”

“Then why would I have to let you know?”

Peter lets out a humorless chuckle on his end, a little muffled. “You’re making me think you don’t want to talk to me, never mind see me. Like I said before, it’s okay if you don’t, but please stop making excuses. Just tell me straight up, and I’ll delete your number.”

“God, Parker,” Michelle mutters, inhaling sharply. “It’s not that. And, if you want proof to go with it...I was planning to ask Leeds if he wanted to go to the bar with me tomorrow night after work. You’re welcome to join if you’re not busy.”

There’s a pregnant pause and then: “Which bar?”

“Please. You know which bar. The three of us have only ever been to _one_ bar in the city.”

“Right,” he says, laughing quietly. “Okay. Text me the time, and I’ll be there.”

“Alright. I’ll let Ned know in advance so that he’ll have enough time to put extra pepper in the drink he orders for you,” she replies, biting back her own small smile.

Peter snorts, his voice lightening up. “Hold on, now. That wasn’t funny the first time you guys did it.”

“I beg to differ, but hey. Whatever makes you feel better.” She glances at Harry, who’s furrowing his brows, and then speaks up again. “So. Tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah. See you, MJ,” Peter murmurs, soft and lingering, before they both hang up their respective lines.

“You’re backsliding, you know,” Harry says without any judgement, his eyes boring into hers, concerned. 

Michelle doesn’t respond, looking away, even though she knows it to be true.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Hey. It’s been a while since I’ve seen your ugly mug,” Michelle remarks lightly as she answers Peter’s video-chat. He merely smiles a little, cheeks reddening under the fluorescent lighting. It looks like he’s in the lab, if the test tube rack and shelf of chemicals in the background are any indication._

_“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy lately with this new project. In fact, if you can’t tell…” He does a grand gesture around him. “I’m still stuck at work. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m literally the only one left.”_

_“Oh. Is it a bad time?”_

_“No, no. You’re good. Besides, I was the one who called you, anyway,” he assures her, his grin still dopey as he scribbles something down on a piece of paper._

_Michelle purses her lips, not wanting to take away from his concentration. But. He does have a point, him calling her and everything. “Can you tell me about it?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“The project,” she clarifies, pushing a curl behind her ear._

_Peter looks up at the camera once again, eyes lighting up. “Yeah, of course! So, it’s like a modular robotics system, right? Me and a few others are trying to create something that will automate the assembly of complex molecules. We’re so close to getting it to synthesize pharmaceutical compounds without human intervention.”_

_Michelle isn’t sure about half of the stuff he just said, but she smiles all the while. “Wow. That’s insane, Parker. That’s really...really insane. This might be weird or whatever...but I’m proud of you. It seems like you’re thriving.”_

_“Thanks, MJ,” he says, flushing ever-so-slightly. “Who knows. Maybe you could take a trip down here some time, and I could show you in person.”_

_“I’m kind of dirt-poor at the moment, but that would be really cool,” she responds with a nod, though her train of thought is suddenly interrupted by the door slamming open._

_“I had to go to five fucking different stores to even find this, but here it is. What a beaut, huh, MJ?”_

_Michelle glances over at Harry, who’s currently wielding a torch, smiling smugly. “You were supposed to get a kitchen torch. Not a...welding torch.”_

_“Okay, but this one was cheaper. And, also, does it even make a difference? We’re making crème brûlée, Jones. Not an ice sculpture for the Queen of England.”_

_She doesn’t bother responding and looks back at the screen in front of her. Peter’s ducked back into his work, pencil between his teeth as he types into a calculator. Michelle watches in amusement, a curl escaping from his backwards baseball cap._

_He eventually glances back up, his wide eyes catching hers. “How long were you watching me?”_

_“Enough to know that you still retain the same habits you had in high school,” she quips, gesturing to his pencil covered in teeth marks._

_Peter rubs the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. “Can’t outgrow all of them, I guess.” He pauses, eyes flitting away from the screen for a split second, Adam's apple bobbing. “So. Not to be nosy or anything, but...uh, who was that?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_He clears his throat, laughing awkwardly. “The one who bought the...blowtorch? Or whatever it was…”_

_“Oh. No one important,” she says with a roll of her eyes, only for Harry to throw an egg in her direction. Lucky for him, he misses, landing it on the pillowed couch. “Are you kidding? What the hell.”_

_“You said I wasn’t important,” Harry huffs, exaggerating his pout._

_Michelle turns back to Peter, only to find him standing up from the desk and moving out of view. She furrows her brows, confused, but he speaks up again._

_“Hey, I, uh...I actually should get back to work now. But—I’ll call you again. Soon. Maybe once my project is complete or something.”_

_“Oh. Okay. I hope I get to see it at some point,” she says, offering a small smile, even though he’s not even in her line of sight._

_“Yeah. I hope so, too.” Peter picks up the phone so at least his face is visible, and he gives her a little wave. “Bye, MJ.”_

_“Bye.”_

_The screen goes black a split-second later, and Michelle’s left staring at her phone, unsure of what to think. Though, Harry’s obnoxiousness doesn’t give her much of a chance to do much thinking, anyway._

_“So, who was that?”_

_“You threw an egg at me. Why should I tell you?”_

_“Because, MJ, we’re friends. Right? And friends tell each other everything,” he says with a shit-eating grin, already fiddling with the torch._

_Michelle lets out a breath, her cheek feeling the bite of her teeth. “It was an old friend of mine. Peter.”_

_“Ah.” Harry looks up and over at her, an almost knowing expression on his face. He smiles. “I see.”_  
  


* * *

  
“You know that this isn’t going to end well, MJ. Getting close to him again, I mean,” Harry tells her, voice muffled on his end of the phone call. “Especially not while you still feel—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Michelle says, her breath short. She’s panting, having just walked all the way from work to the bar that’s lit up with a neon _open_ sign. “I thought we had a mutual unspoken agreement to not talk about what I feel, for one. And, two, this is nothing. We’re just...hanging out—and with Ned, nonetheless.”

“Sure.” But he says it slowly and drawn out, like he doesn’t believe her.

“I didn’t answer your call to listen to you scold me for my choices. Look, my day at work was shit, like usual, so I’m here because I need a drink.” She pushes the door open, a bell jingling to signal her entrance.

Harry sighs in resignation. “Well. Alright. Are you going to need me to come pick up your drunk ass afterwards?”

“I’ll take a cab, thank you very much. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your evening of streaming The Bachelor or...whatever it was.”

“Love Island,” he corrects, amused. “But call me if you need anything, anyway.”

“Fine,” Michelle says with a roll of her eyes, smiling a bit. “Bye, Harry.”

“Bye.”

They both hang up, and she makes her way to the counter with ease. However, Michelle’s eyes widen in surprise upon finding Peter already sitting there with Ned. He’s early, not exactly what she was expecting, especially since she’d just texted him the time about a half hour beforehand.

Neither of them have noticed her yet, too engrossed in their conversation that has Peter smirking, saying something under his breath to Ned, who seems equally enthralled.

“So. Looks like you two beat me to the punch,” she speaks up, nodding at the beers in their hands. They both turn around in their stools, pleasant expressions overtaking their faces.

“MJ! Finally!” Ned grins at her, opting for a one-armed hug. “God, this feels like a reunion, doesn’t it? The three of us together again.”

Michelle merely smiles in acknowledgement before her gaze floats over to Peter. “Sup, Parker.”

“Hey, yourself.” He slides one of the three beers sitting between him and Ned over to her. “We got you this beer. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks.” She takes a swig from the dewy bottle, only for her face to screw up in disgust. “Wow. Pepper? Really? You’re not funny.”

“Oh, so you can dish it but not take it? That radiates _sore_ loser, MJ,” Peter says, something warm and familiar in his eyes. 

“Shut up,” she grumbles, taking a seat next to him. The bartender thankfully places a fresh beer in front of her, one that doesn’t taste like shit. 

Ned gives her a curious glance, probably because she’s draining the bottle rather quickly. “So, how was work? Betty keeps telling me that things are tough over there, and I figured...you probably feel the same way, right?”

“You know how the industry is. Add Carlie on top of that and...well. Instant recipe for a headache each night.”

Peter leans forward on his elbows, eyebrows raising. “Who’s Carlie?”

She sighs heavily, rubbing her forehead. “My boss. Betty’s boss. We both...hate her, to put it mildly, but we aren’t in any position to boycott work. She’d replace us just like…” Michelle snaps her fingers. “That.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. If you, uh, dislike your job, though...why not just quit? I’m sure you could find a better company to work for.”

Michelle has to refrain from rolling her eyes. “It’s not that easy, Parker. I’d most likely remain unemployed for months, and I don’t have money to fall back on.” She and Harry wouldn’t have _any_ income besides what his father sends in, and that’s not the least bit reliable.

“Oh,” he repeats, a broken record.

“Whatever. It’s fine.” She orders another beer, already finished with her first. It’s starting to get warm in the bar, which prompts her to remove the jacket she had on. “Let’s talk about Leeds. I don’t hear nearly enough about how you’re doing from your lovely wife.”

Ned flushes a bit and smiles. “Well, we just moved into a bigger place since that crappy apartment was not cutting it. I’m sure Betty already said so and all that, but the new house is really nice. And, uh, she’s been itching to get a cat, so I’m thinking...why not take the plunge, right?”

“Good grief,” Michelle mutters against the lip of her bottle.

Peter looks at her in amusement. “You still hate cats, huh?”

Ned’s expression goes incredulous and almost pout-like. “What is there to hate about cats?”

“Don’t even get her started,” Peter remarks with a chuckle, sipping his drink lightly.

“Please, I don’t see you chartering a cat around,” she snorts. “Unless you’ve got one stashed back in California and have a list of valid pros, I wouldn’t even attempt to make an argument against me, Parker.”

“No, I don’t have one.” He looks down at his drink, a little sheepish. “Felicia doesn’t really like them, either...so we’ve stuck to taking care of plants.”

Michelle stamps down the sour feeling that’s trying to claw itself up her throat and gives him a measly smile. “At least she’s got good taste.” The beer in her hand is starting to feel lighter and lighter as seconds pass.

“See, this is where you guys are leaving me out of the loop. Peter barely tells me anything about Felicia, and MJ—I didn’t even _know_ you had a boyfriend until tonight,” Ned complains.

“You wouldn’t be interested in my love life, Leeds. Trust me,” she utters, telling herself that this is going to be the last beer she orders.

“Yeah, but the whole time I’ve known you and Harry, I’ve never—”

Michelle grits her teeth, the rate at which she’s downing alcohol starting to make things a bit foggy. “It’s not a big deal, Ned. Harry and I are great. We’re...compatible.” She closes her eyes, hearing the bitter note in her own voice and inwardly wishes that the drink burned more going down. “Fuck.”

Peter furrows his brows a little, a wrinkle of concern in his expression. “Is everything...okay between you two?”

“Yep. Yes, everything is _fantastic_.” 

“I think she’s getting a little tipsy,” Ned whispers, leaning towards Peter, but that only has Michelle snapping her eyes open.

“I _think_ I heard that. I’m not tipsy,” she huffs, lying her head in her arms as they rest on the counter.

Ned snorts, his lips quirking up in slight amusement. “Okay...well. I guess she's not tipsy, then.” He looks back at Peter, his expression still too curious. “So, Felicia. As your best friend, I’m telling you, man. I need the dirt. Because, honestly, I thought that you and MJ were gonna get—”

It’s a good thing that Ned cuts himself off quickly, regret already seeping into his features. If he hadn’t stopped running his mouth, Michelle thinks she would’ve found a way to interrupt him that wasn’t so nice.

“Hah...yeah,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh...I’ll text you about it. Later. There’s really...not that much dirt.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he says quickly, nodding. Their conversation trails off for a moment, but it no sooner picks up with just as much ease as when they first started talking. “So, did you see that new Star Wars movie that just came out?”

“Are you kidding? _Obviously_.”  
  


* * *

  
Michelle thinks she was about a millisecond from falling asleep right then and there, the quiet background chatter enough to lull her closer to REM. But, of course, a finger pokes her shoulder sharply at the most inopportune moment.

“Hey. MJ, don’t fall asleep. We’re going to be leaving soon,” Peter says, his voice quiet despite him telling her to stay awake. She slowly pulls her head up, her vision a little blurry until she blinks a few times. 

“I hope we can get together again like this before you go back to Cali,” Ned tells him, smiling earnestly until it turns into an offhand shrug. “Or, you know. You could do us all a favor and just move back here.”

Peter chuckles as the two of them engage in their handshake. “We’ll see, Ned. But I’ve missed you. _Both_ of you.”

Michelle makes a noncommittal sound. “We did have to ingest alcohol to be around each other, so you could be full of shit.”

“You know I’m not,” he replies, sincere. 

She presses her lips together, her mind too muddled and tired to come up with an argument. “Okay.”

“I had a good time, guys. Group hug!” Ned pulls them both into a tight squeeze, and Michelle smiles despite herself. “Don’t be strangers. We all need to talk more often.”

“No doubt.”

“Actually, I think I’ve got enough of you two for the next decade.”

“Too bad,” Ned says with a grin. “Love you both. See y’all soon.” He gives them a two-fingered salute before grabbing his hat from the counter and walks towards the bar’s exit.

Michelle doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know if there even _is_ anything else to say with just her and Peter. But, considering it is nearing one-thirty in the morning, there’s probably no point in waiting around for words to hit her.

Peter shifts on his feet, the air undoubtedly more awkward now that their buffer is gone. “Is Harry going to come pick you up?”

She snorts, humorless, shaking her head. “Yeah, right. I’m just going to…” Her hand makes an incomprehensible gesture. “Take a cab.”

“Um. Are you…” He pauses, struggling with his words. “I have a car. I mean, technically, I have one of _Tony’s_ cars. Would you want me to...take you home?”

Michelle furrows her brows at Peter’s fidgeting stance, the way he has his lips tucked into a thin smile. She doesn’t know why he’d offer her such a thing, figuring his girlfriend is most likely waiting up for him at the compound.

“I didn’t have that much to drink. I can get home by myself,” she says, hesitant. 

“I know you can. But—still. It is really late.”

“It is. But, I’m pretty sure you have other things you’d rather be doing.”

Peter rocks on his heels, his hands shoved into his pockets. “It’s one in the morning, MJ.”

“Exactly,” Michelle says, purposefully slow. She knows he understands what she’s getting at, judging by the way his face flushes bright pink, eyes darting away. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“I told Felicia that I’d be getting back late. She’s not going to be waiting for me.” He’s persistent, and yet, he keeps glancing at his watch, like there’s only a certain amount of time he wants to stand there and debate with her. “Come on, MJ.”

Michelle sighs, eventually conceding with a mere nod, if only to make it so she can end their night quicker. “Fine. We’re wasting minutes in here, anyway.”

Peter shoots her a small smile, the reasoning and relief behind it jumbling her mind. They walk out of the bar together, nearing the parking spot where Stark’s car is sitting. 

One thing for sure is that it really sticks out like a sore thumb among all of the surrounding junky vehicles.

“She’s beautiful, huh?”

“Sure. Her paint job, however, could use some real work,” Michelle says, confused on why Tony would choose lime green, of all colors, as his base. They get their respective sides, and she watches as Peter presses one button, lighting the whole panel up. “Is this self-driving?”

“Uh, yeah. Figured just to be safe since I was coming to a bar.” He drums his fingers against the pointless steering wheel, restless for some reason. “Oh, you need to say your address.”

Michelle slowly recites the location of her apartment building and then sits back in her seat as the car starts pulling itself out of the lot. She swallows, more nervous to be in a self-driving vehicle than in a cab with a stranger. The thought of how untrustworthy technology can be is slightly unsettling.

“So. Because I’m a jackass, I’m going to assume you had a good time tonight,” she remarks, trying to pull herself from her head as she stares out the windows at blurred scenery.

“If you were a jackass, you’d be correct. But, uh, you’re not.”

“I'm not correct?”

“No, I mean—ah, shit. I meant that you’re not a jackass. Not that you’re...not correct,” he mutters, huffing out a chuckle. “I had a good time. Did...you?”

“I zoned out through a lot of it. Mostly when you and Ned wouldn’t shut up about Star Wars,” Michelle admits, her lips quirking. “But...yeah. I guess I did.”

“I’m glad.”

Their silence sinks into something more comfortable, more companionable. By the time they reach her apartment, she feels relaxed enough to bid Peter a proper, friendlier adieu than last time.

Except, when she starts to get out of the car, so does he.

“What, are you going to walk me up to my door, too?”

Peter flushes, his face reddening in embarrassment. “Well, I still wanted to talk to you about something, and you were going to leave without saying goodbye.”

Michelle huffs out a little breath, because _no, that’s not true_. Still, she refrains from saying that since he’s now following her into the building. “We had a whole car ride, you know.”

“I know. I just—I forgot. And, uh, it’s about the auction, anyway.” He speeds up slightly, slipping into the elevator beside her. The building, aside from them, is quiet and empty—could even be assumed as unoccupied for how rarely she sees neighboring tenants out and about.

“Are you uninviting me?” Because that would make her decision ten times easier.

“What? No. Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” she offers lamely as an answer, her gaze locked on the floor number rising steadily.

“I was just talking to Tony, and...uh, we are going to need to know if you’re coming or not. Probably in like a week and a half? It’s only because he wants to be more organized this time around and have actual seating arrangements for dinner,” Peter explains, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Seating arrangements.” The elevator dings as they arrive at her floor, and Michelle steps off. Though, she doesn’t make any further progress to her door. “What is this, the Met Gala? Why does he suddenly care?”

“I think it was more along the lines of Pepper telling him what to do, but…” Peter shrugs, his eyes darting around the vacant hallway. “Which one’s yours?”

“The one with the shittiest paint-job.” She walks over to it, dragging her feet, because it’s not like she’s actually going to invite him in. “Well, um. I’m still thinking about it. Fine dining with a bunch of rich assholes doesn’t sound all that appealing.”

“Okay. Uh, well, if you change your mind...I’m a call away.”

“Mhm.” Michelle places a hand on the doorknob, ready to say goodbye. “Have a nice—”

The door suddenly swings away from her, flooding light into the hallway. She glances back and sees Harry, shirtless and squinting.

“What...are you guys doing out here?”

Peter blinks, surprised, almost like he had forgotten that she shares her apartment. “I, um...I just brought MJ home. Since, you know. You didn’t.”

Harry snorts, unimpressed. “Okay. Why don’t you stick to chauffeuring _your_ girlfriend around, yeah? Let Michelle take her cab next time.”

“What,” Peter scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not allowed to do something for the sake of being nice?”

“Oh, of course. No, I get it. You care about your _buddy_ ,” he replies with a roll of his eyes. “Go home, Parker.”

Michelle looks at Peter and his conflicted expression, her own face wiped blank. “Goodnight, Peter.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, not moving for a couple of seconds before finally nodding, curt and stiff. Once she sees him turn around, she closes the door, breathing out a sigh.

“He’s not making this easy on you, huh?”

“ _Shut up_ , Harry.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Michelle taps her fingers idly against the keyboard, though she doesn’t make any moves to type anything, her Word document blank as can be. It’s her first week at work—not to mention her first late night at the office, having just gotten a job as a journalist. Albeit, it’s not the most well-known company, but she was adamantly against having Harry pull any strings to get her in The Bugle._

_She lets out a frustrated huff, writer’s block hitting her like a brick. It doesn’t help that her coffee is running low, though the coffee machine there only grinds out the most burnt flavor._

_“Any luck with your piece?”_

_“No. I’ve been staring at this for so long that my eyes are starting to hurt,” she admits, frustrated._

_Betty Brant, one of her fellow employees and long-time friend, shoots her an empathetic look. “Trust me. I get it.”_

_Michelle smiles briefly. “Hey, at least you’re going to get two weeks off or whatever for your upcoming honeymoon. That’s going to be two weeks with no freedom from your husband.”_

_Betty’s cheeks redden, a small chuckle echoing from her lips. “He’s not my husband yet, you know. I’ve still got fifteen more days.”_

_“Glad to see you’re counting down,” she jokes lightly, untucking the pencil from behind her ear. It’s a nice thought, knowing that two of her closest friends from high school are finally getting married. They had originally planned to elope straight after graduation, something Michelle could never imagine, but then second thoughts came._

_And now here they are._

_“Ned’s the one with the calendar.” Betty looks away, her lips curling up at the thought. “Such a babe, I swear.”_

_“I’m happy for you guys. I know I’m supposed to say that shit after the ceremony, but I’m saying it now.” Michelle glances down, her phone in her hand. “Who exactly...RSVP’d?”_

_“Almost everyone we sent invitations to. Cindy, Sally, Abe, Brad...even Flash, if you can believe it,” she says with a laugh._

_“What a nice spread.”_

_Betty’s expression quickly sobers, like those four words had an underlying tone that she could immediately see through. “But, uh...it sucks that Peter can’t make it. He said he wishes he could, but they’ve got...this project to present to some CEOs or something on that day.”_

_“Hmm. I’m glad that takes precedence over his best friend’s wedding,” Michelle says with snort._

_“Ned understands. So do I. It’s okay, MJ,” she responds reassuringly._

_Michelle merely nods, her thoughts all suddenly tangled up in a stringy mess. She can admit, it’s been a while since she’s talked to Peter. He’s always been the one to call first, a pattern they just fell into without realizing it. But now, after months of no communication from either end, she’s suddenly the one dialing his number in her phone._

_Betty watches her, the ringing echoing through the cramped and cluttered room. Once, twice, thrice, and Michelle almost thinks he’s not going to pick up._

_But he does._

_He’s breathless, like he just ran to the phone. “Oh, hi!”_

_“Hey, Parker,” Michelle says, her small smile inevitable. “Thought you were going to make me leave a voicemail for a second.”_

_“Ah, no, I was just getting ready in the bathroom,” he explains, which has her casually glancing out the office window. The sun has long since sunken past the horizon. California would even be dark at that time._

_“Well, I hope you’re not done. Your hair looks worse than mine.”_

_Peter snorts, good-humored and amused. “That’s not saying much.” Still, he walks back into the bathroom with his phone, propping it against the soap dish. It gives her a chance to see his casual button-up and dark jeans as he tugs a comb through his curls. “So, what’s up with you?”_

_Michelle wants to ask if she’s called at the wrong time, wants to know if he’s going somewhere important enough for him to keep fussing with the single strand of hair hanging down. However, she loses the courage, unsure if that makes her fortunate or unfortunate._

_Instead, without giving her mouth permission, Michelle blurts out, “I’m with Betty right now. Uh, you remember her, right? You remember that she’s having a wedding in fifteen fucking days, and did you know—I didn’t even know this—did you know that her fiancé’s best friend isn’t showing up?”_

_Peter freezes, hands stilled. He drops his gaze back to the phone, lips folded inward. “I know. I told them that I’m going to have a mandatory meeting with some people who want to take a look at the Chemputer we’ve built here.” He pauses. “Hi, Betty.”_

_She leans her head closer to Michelle’s to be seen, sheepish. “Hey. We already told you that we understand. It’s fine.”_

_“You know I’d be there if I could.”_

_“We know,” she says, her smile soft. “Ned will send pictures.”_

_“I’ll be expecting them.” Peter flashes Betty a brief wink before going back to scrutinizing himself in the mirror._

_Michelle sits back in her chair, words at the tip of her tongue that she’s dying to say. But at the last second, an apology slips past her lips. “I’m sorry.” She closes her eyes, suddenly irritated with herself. “I’m not...blaming you for not being able to be here.”_

_“I know. It’s okay.” He taps the screen, getting her to look at him again. There’s something akin to a smile on his face, but not quite. “Don’t worry, MJ. If I show up to anyone’s wedding, it’ll be yours.”_

_She huffs out a breath, an indescribable feeling churning in her gut. She quickly pushes it away, shaking her head. “I’d be pissed if you didn’t.”_

_Peter chuckles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, I have to go now. I’ll, uh—”_

_Michelle doesn’t allow herself to think this time. “Got a hot date or something, Parker?”_

_“Ha, ha. No, I’m just…” He walks out of the bathroom, killing the light. “I’m meeting with some friends.”_

_“Well. I won’t keep you,” she says before hesitating. “But either way. You look nice.”_

_There’s that half-smile again, a split-second before their call ends._  
  


* * *

  
The sharp knock on their apartment door is what wakes Michelle up. She can admit with slight embarrassment that she hadn’t made it any farther than their couch the previous night, too exhausted and beyond caring to get to her bedroom.

Harry had wordlessly draped a blanket over her before settling on the opposite side, his phone in hand. He was still scrolling on the bright screen by the time she had fallen asleep.

Now, Michelle’s the first one up, which means she has the responsibility of seeing what jackass could possibly need something at seven in the morning.

She swings the door open quietly, her expression schooling itself at the sight of none other than Norman Osborn. His pressed shirt and immaculate Windsor knot practically mock her own wrinkled clothing.

“Ah. Miss Jones,” he says coolly, giving her a once-over. “How are you doing this fine morning?”

Michelle smiles tightly, not opening the door any further for him. “Peaches and cream, Mr. Osborn. Now, what could you possibly need at the crack of dawn?”

“I’d like to talk to my son, if that’s alright.”

“Well. You’ll have to come back another time. He’s still asleep right now,” she says, her tone coming off short unintentionally. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” She starts to close the door on him, but he places a hand on it—a hand that’s visibly trembling. 

“I’m sure he won’t mind if I wake him up. This is rather important,” Norman responds, tone condescending, and yet, there’s something about his appearance that makes him look physically weaker. An odd paleness to his skin. “Excuse me, Miss Jones.” He walks past her, into their apartment.

Michelle bitterly wonders where he could’ve possibly picked that kind of audacity up, closing the door a little too forcefully behind him. She’s never liked Harry’s father, not since they’ve first come face-to-face, and the feeling is quite mutual. He had automatically assumed that she was his son’s girlfriend, and not a good enough one at that.

And, well, Michelle’s the last person who could give a shit about impressing someone based on her looks and wealth. She gets it—she doesn’t own a fucking company. Neither do millions of others.

“Father,” Harry mumbles, sitting up. He rubs his eyes, visibly still tired. “What are you doing here?”

“I have to tell you something.” Norman leans down, expression serious as he leans down. There’s a sheen on his forehead that Michelle hadn’t noticed before, presumably from sweat. He murmurs quietly in his son’s ear, words that she can’t make out, but they have an obvious effect on Harry.

“You’re...lying. You always do that. You lie,” Harry says, swallowing thickly. He stands up, pushing past his father to get to the kitchen.

“I’m afraid not, son.”

“You’re not... _sick_.”

Michelle inhales sharply, though it’s not shocking. It’s not implausible, not like Harry’s making it out to be. He seems almost shell-shocked at the admission, but she can’t blame him.

Norman chuckles, dry and raspy. “Do I look in good health to you, Harry?”

“You’ve never said anything before,” Harry snaps, wavering and slightly unsteady.

“I just recently went to see my doctor. Only when things started getting worse,” Norman explains and then covers his mouth to cough. He grimaces, wordlessly taking a handkerchief from his pocket to clean his hands. The spots of red are too visible on the cotton. “Maybe that was a mistake on my part. My lungs—I have to say...they’re not in the best shape right now.”

“What—what are they going to do? The doctors? You can afford the best of them, so—surely, they’re going to fix you up. Right?” Harry waits a beat, but Norman keeps quiet, his expression speaking for itself. “ _Right_ , Father?”

“There’s nothing they can do.”

For a split-second, Harry’s the most vulnerable Michelle has ever seen him, his gaze misty and helpless. But, then he closes himself off, eyes hardening, and he turns around, already starting towards his bedroom. “Maybe you fucking deserve it, then.” His door slams closed.

She doesn’t know what to say, and it’s clear that his father doesn’t, either. Michelle goes to open her mouth, maybe offer a tentative condolence, but Norman merely straightens up. He fixes his tie and then walks towards their apartment door. It closes quietly behind him.  
  


* * *

  
Michelle hasn’t done much since Norman left, having only migrated back to the couch. She isn’t sure how long she’s been sitting in silence, just waiting. For what, she doesn’t know.

It’s a fact that she’s never been good at offering comfort, never been the one that others go to if they need a shoulder to cry on. Michelle can admit, when it comes to consoling, she quite frankly makes it come off as awkward and forced. Her words aren’t always enough, but they’re the only thing she has to offer.

And when it comes to Harry, it’s just as complicated. He never wants anyone to see him when he’s at his lowest, like it would be a blow to his already inflated ego. Not to mention he absolutely despises pity, something she’s noticed on more than one occasion. Whether it’s about the smallest rejection or the biggest loss, it doesn’t matter.

Which Michelle understands wholeheartedly. Pity won’t help anything—it won’t _do_ anything except make you feel worse. 

But just because neither of them are good at the emotional shit doesn’t mean they aren’t there for each other. She’s learned that after being Harry’s friend for long enough—learned that the basis of their relationship seems to root from mutual understanding. 

That’s why she’s sitting there, waiting.

Michelle’s almost positive that she was waiting for nearly a half hour before Harry’s door cracks open. He comes out, hair ruffled and eyes a little red, but any visible signs that he’s distressed are out the window.

“Do you want to get some coffee?”

She purses her lips, trying to ignore the way his voice comes off stilted. “Who do you take me for, Osborn?”

“My bad. Tea,” he corrects, folding his lips inward. Michelle doesn’t say anything else, responding with a nod of her head.

They walk out of their apartment together, hands shoved in the pockets of their own padded coats. It’s undoubtedly cold outside, the chill hitting Michelle like a slap on the face. Her breath remains cloudy as they head down the sidewalk, towards the one coffee shop they both share an appreciation for.

“Harry—”

He cuts her off brusquely. “So—how was last night? I’m assuming you had a lot to drink, considering I smelled beer on you the second you came in.”

Michelle rolls her eyes at his obvious attempt at deflection. “You know I’m not going to make you talk about it. Just don’t interrupt me like that, asshat.”

Harry flushes, cheeks already red from the cold. “I know. Sorry.”

“Last night was fine,” she admits anyway, opening the cafe door for him. He tips an imaginary hat at her, skirting by, and the warm air is welcoming as anything. They find a corner booth, away from the chattering crowds. “And I only had three beers.”

“Shocking,” he snorts, lips quirked. “I would’ve thought you’d need at least a vodka or two to be around Parker.”

Michelle frowns, looking away for a second. “He’s a good guy, and we’re friends. I don’t see why that would be a problem, Harry. It’s fine.”

“You keep saying it’s fine and that you’re friends. I don’t get it, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it.” He leans forward, voice lowered—like he’s sharing a secret. “Why the fuck would you be friends with an ex that you still have feelings for?”

She sits back in her seat, expression twisted. “Don’t.”

“You know I’m right, even if you want to keep denying it. But, honestly, what good is that going to do?” Harry sits back, too, shrugging carelessly. “He’s moved on, got himself a lovely girlfriend. He lives on the other side of the fucking country, and he’ll be going back there before you know it.”

“No shit,” Michelle says, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t think I’m aware of that?”

“I’m just wondering what the point is to this—to befriending Peter again when you’re just going to return to the same barely-there friendship that consisted of one or two phone calls. I mean, come on, MJ. You’re not going to be happy until you move on, and you won’t move on if he’s still in your life.”

Michelle blinks slowly, his words so blunt that she wonders if he actually cares about saying them. Their meaning isn’t at the forefront of her mind, not at that moment, but the way they’re being used is, like an intentional knife to her back. 

“We’ve lived together for how long now, Harry? You don’t think I’m aware of what you’re doing?” She gives him a thin smile. “I get that you’re upset. Of course you are, and you’re allowed to be. But—this? This attempt at trying to constrain me to mutual misery with you—it’s not fair.” She pushes her chair back, standing up. “I remember coming here for a drink, so that's what I’m going to get.”

“MJ—”

She’s already in line—her back towards him—when he calls her name again, reaching out. 

“Hey, fella, get to the end of the line! You youngsters think you can just cut? I need my coffee, too, y’know,” another customer that’s behind her suddenly grunts, mustache twitching in irritation.

Michelle glances over to see Harry raising his hands placatingly, backing up before he meets her gaze. There’s an apology in his eyes if you know where to look.

“You can go in front of me,” she says to the older man, who accepts without another word.

“MJ,” Harry repeats, softer. “I’m sorry.”

Michelle nods, lips quirking ever so slightly. “Just because you’re hurting doesn’t mean we have to hurt together. We’re not that attached at the hip.”

“I know. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say what I said—”

She huffs out a breath, moving up in the line. “I’m sure you did. You were just lacking your usual tact and opportune timing.”

“Okay. Fine, yeah, I was going to say it at some point. I just don’t want whatever you have with Peter to let you down again,” he responds, biting the inside of his cheek. “But we don’t have to talk about that now.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Procrastination and denial are my true virtues.” She walks the rest of the way up to the counter and orders a cup of chamomile tea with honey before Harry slides up next to her. He adds a black coffee to that bill, already reaching for his wallet. “Oh, it’s too late to act like a gentleman for me now, Osborn.”

“Ha, ha. Too bad, Jones. I’m paying.” He tosses a ten on the counter, flashing the cashier a brief smile. Their drinks come all that much faster.

“So,” Michelle prompts as they sit back down. “I know I mentioned earlier that I’m not going to make you talk about it. That said...do you _want_ to talk about it?”

Harry snorts, his eyes full of humorless mirth. “What’s there to talk about? My dad’s a piece of shit, and he’s going to die. End of story.”

“But he’s not dead yet.” She brings the mug up to her lips, sipping the hot liquid. “Which means if you wanted...you could visit him. Talk to him.”

“No,” he sighs, ducking his head. “I don’t really care about making things right between us before...you know.”

“What about to say goodbye?”

“I’m good.” His smile is sad despite his words.  
  


* * *

  
It might be a sign that Harry’s unintentional yet callous words from the other day have sunk deep into Michelle’s brain, striking some sort of nerve, when she finds herself ignoring the occasional texts she gets from Peter. They’re nothing important, really—just random remarks or casual questions—but she isn’t offering any responses.

She’d like to blame it on the fact that there’s nothing to say. Small talk over text doesn’t make for good conversation.

But that wouldn’t explain the way she usually does start to type something up, initially about to give him a one word answer, and then always deletes it afterward.

Michelle eventually comes to the conclusion, which is only an hour after she’d been reading and re-reading the same page of her book because the comprehension isn’t there, that Harry was right.

In a sense, at least. 

It’s obvious at that point, even to herself, that she still has feelings for Peter—however stupid they may be. In no other scenario would she care so much about having a fake boyfriend as proof to herself and him that she’s over their past relationship. She would never care about hearing the details of his happiness with someone else if it were anyone but Peter.

Denial isn't working for her, anymore. She can’t pretend that she’s happy hanging around him or talking to him when he’s going to go home to Felicia.

Their brittle friendship isn’t going to last. Michelle knows that her bitterness wouldn’t be fair towards Peter or his girlfriend.

It wouldn’t be fair to _her_ , either, to have to keep feeling this way.

When Harry gets home from the gym, she tells him what she’s going to do, and he wordlessly pulls her into a hug. He’s sweaty, so it’s disgusting.

Michelle calls Peter after that, not letting nerves get the best of her. She asks if they can meet at a park, somewhere public. He agrees, albeit a little confused.

She’s the first one there, so she sits on a bench and takes out the same book she was struggling with earlier. It’s still difficult to make it past the one page, her heart beating too fast.

“MJ?”

“Oh. Hi,” she says, looking up. “I, uh, wanted to talk about something. It’s kind of important.”

Peter smiles a little and takes the seat next to her. “Okay. What’s up?”

“Well.” Michelle puts her book away, possibly stalling a little. “Um. First of all, I’m saying right now that I’m not going to go to that auction. I just—I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says, shoulders sagging slightly. “I mean, I get it. I’ll let Tony know.”

Michelle presses her lips together, stomach churning in the worst way. She already regrets this, wishing she would’ve stuck to ignoring him. That might have been easier. “Also. This is...this is out of the blue. I realize that, so I’m—I’m sorry. Peter…I don’t think this is working. This friendship we’re trying to rekindle.”

Peter furrows his brows. “What—what do you mean? I thought we were good. MJ—”

“We’re not. We keep saying we’re friends, but it feels like we aren’t. And—with you living on the other side of the country, I don’t really...see the point in trying, anymore.”

“MJ,” he repeats, alarmed and confused. “What do you want from me? I could—I could visit more? We could talk on the phone—”

“No, because then we’ll just end up at the same place. Our communication was fucked, Peter. It didn’t work. And I...know we made that agreement before you left, but that fell through, too.” Michelle bites the inside of her cheek as she hears his sharp inhale. “We’re both happy where we are right now. That shouldn’t have to change.”

“So you’re saying, what, that we just stop? That there’s no point in even trying to be friends, anymore?” His eyes are glassy, and hers are, too. “Come on, MJ. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s inevitable for us to fall out of touch again—just like it was inevitable for us to move on,” Michelle says, her voice cracking too much. “You’ve got a good life back in California, Parker. You don’t need me in it, anymore.” She stands up at that point, ducking her face into the crook of her elbow. “I have to go.”

Peter grabs her hand, and she halts for a moment. “Wait, MJ—wait, please.” He moves in front of her, maybe on purpose so that she can see the tears slipping. “I’ll still be here for, like, two more weeks. We can figure something out. Please.”

She breaks their gaze, her heart already throbbing painfully. “I don’t want to.” Michelle wipes her eyes, exhaustion starting to take over. “Enjoy the rest of your time here, Peter.”

And when she walks away, she finds that it somehow hurts more than when they had to break up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has to get worse before it gets better :(


	6. Chapter 6

_Michelle was never one who enjoyed celebrating her birthday. In fact, it was always the opposite. She thought that being a year older was the most mundane reason for someone to throw a party. What was the point, aside from being happy that she’s not dead yet?_

_Nothing has really changed throughout the years. She’s still not a fan of her birthday, finding that celebrations shouldn’t be wasted on something that everyone goes through. People age, big deal._

_But she’s grown to hate it a little less overtime. There weren’t any more big parties. People didn’t sing, and they didn’t take group pictures where everyone has to force a smile—which she never bothered doing, anyway._

_Instead, there were intimate dinners with only the people that she loved. It’s been tradition for a while now._

_Her parents are there. Ned and Betty. Harry._

_And Michelle is in the middle, laughing at the fact that her mom failed at making a pot roast once again._

_“You see, I finally understand where your cooking skills originate from, MJ,” Harry remarks, his humor contagious if her mom has anything to say about it._

_“You know, Harry, I used to tell her that all of the time. My baby could never make a good-tasting meal for the life of her, but as parents, we had to pretend to like it,” her mother says with a light chuckle, flashing Michelle a wink._

_Michelle merely scowls. “Imagine what Dad and I endured for all those years.”_

_“Oh, dear,” her father laughs, throwing his head back. “She’s not wrong, Angeline.”_

_“See, I don’t think you’re a bad cook, MJ,” Betty adds, her smile kind, but the thing is—Michelle has never made anything for her. It can stay that way, though, if only to preserve those standards._

_Ned smirks, wrapping an arm around his wife. “Unpopular opinion, babe.”_

_Michelle rolls her eyes, feeling something content swirl around her stomach. “Can we move on, please? I’m pretty sure we got a store-bought rotisserie chicken for this exact reason. Ahem, Mom.”_

_“Oh, shut it, ‘Chelle. I’ll get the chicken prepared just for you,” she replies, teasing, but then her father thankfully swipes it from her, clicking his tongue._

_“Your mother will find a way to mess this up.”_

_Her parents start playfully arguing, something that’s been a constant in her house for who knows how long. Michelle turns away, her attention piqued by Harry tapping her shoulder._

_“Hey. I have something I want to give you back in my room.”_

_“First year, and you’re already breaking the rules, Osborn,” Michelle says, snorting. “No gifts, remember?”_

_Harry merely smirks. “I’m rebellious like that. Come on.” He gestures for her to follow him back, so she does. “Okay, it’s not wrapped, because—well, I wrap like shit. But...here you go.”_

_He hands Michelle a mug, one that she didn’t expect to have her face on it—a picture that Harry had taken without consent but somehow ended up as a favorite. She looks ridiculous, cross-eyed and tongue out._

_In all fairness, she was mocking him._

_Michelle has to laugh, shaking her head. “This is embarrassing. I’ll put it on my desk at work.”_

_“So...you like it?” He grins, wide and smug._

_“Very much,” she says with a small, sincere smile. “Thank you.”_

_“You’re welcome,” Harry replies, expression softening just a bit. “See, aren’t you glad I broke the rules for you?”_

_She merely rolls her eyes, unable to shake the lightheartedness, and he gives her a twin set of finger-guns before backing out of his room. Michelle puts the mug down, about to follow him, but then her phone dings with a text message._

_‘Happy birthday, MJ! Hope you’re having an amazing day.’_

_It’s from Peter._

_Michelle can’t remember the last time they’ve talked. Neither of them have put in much effort to communicate, anymore, his name sinking further and further down her list of messaged contacts. It’s sad if she thinks about it too long, so she tries to abstain._

_But he texted her on her birthday, and that’s something, despite the vast difference of a message from the year before. It’s far more impersonal now._

_Michelle recalls when it was him at her birthday dinners—when it was him sneaking her gifts, despite her reluctance to accept them. She thinks about how he planned the mornings for the two of them to celebrate alone before coming home with her to family._

_And then she suddenly has to stop thinking, has to pull herself from her head._

_Because that’s not how it is, anymore._

_‘Thank you.’_  
  


* * *

  
It’s a fact that Harry has been a real trooper through Michelle’s slump. That’s not to say he’s been nicer to her, which she wouldn’t expect from him even on a good day, but he’s there. And—he’s not telling her to get off the couch after days of her hogging it.

She’s been watching documentary after documentary, trying to pry her thoughts away from something broken. The serial killer ones work best, if not for the morbid idea that there are evidently people out there who are having a worse time than she is.

They have a sort of schedule, Harry and her. Each time he leaves the house, he takes Michelle’s phone with him, an emotional safety precaution. He always comes back with something else from the store to keep her mind off things.

This time, it’s a first-person shooter game set in a post-apocalyptic world for their console.

“Why...would you think I’d want this?” She gives him a bewildered look, and he guffaws.

“I didn’t, but…” Harry holds the video game case up next to her head. “I thought I saw some sort of uncanny resemblance to you and these zombies. Would you hate me if I said you both look dead inside?”

Michelle’s eyes widen, indignant at first, but then she comes to the conclusion that he’s not wrong. “Cheap shot, Osborn. But...you still get a point.”

Harry smiles, wry, and takes a seat next to her on the couch. He shockingly doesn’t talk through the documentary she has on, even though she knows he hates them with a passion and likes to make that clear every few seconds.

Their conventional schedule lasts for a little while longer, but not as long as it should have. The way tables turn is unfortunate, Michelle thinks, because the next thing they know, Harry’s receiving a phone call from his father’s office.

Norman Osborn is dead.

It throws them both for a loop, though Harry more so by all means, the death coming extremely sudden and quick.

Thanks to the fast-fire news, Michelle learns it was caused by something relating to too much fluid in the lungs. Despite passing away in his own home, it only took a day for his death to be plastered in every paper and headlined across the world-wide web. 

_CEO of billion-dollar company dead after diagnosed with fatal sickness. New head of Oscorp is still to be determined._

Michelle is consistently annoyed by the fact that even her own company is trying to pry an exposé out of nothing, brainstorming ideas about how Osborn’s death possibly wasn’t an accident and stupid shit like that. No wonder the upcoming funeral is going to be private, any and all media forbidden.

She had to take the day off from work to be able to attend, her boss’ leniency on how many ‘sick’ days Michelle can have suddenly amplified after learning the reasoning behind it. Not because she was a warm, understanding person, but because she thought it would be the perfect loophole to get an inside scoop at the funeral.

Michelle had merely walked out, knowing that while she could be insensitive at times, she wasn’t that insensitive. 

Now, she’s currently standing in the kitchen of their apartment, waiting for Harry to finish getting ready. Every so often, her phone chimes with a text, but she’s wary of looking at them, her nerves still refusing to settle days later.

Harry eventually emerges from the bathroom, suit on and hair styled. He seems anything but calm, and yet, he still asks, “Do I look okay?”

“No offense, but no one’s going to care how you look,” she tells him, deadpan. “They _will_ care if you’re late, so let’s get a move on.”

He doesn’t say anything, his stiff nod enough of a response for her. They get into his car and head down to the funeral service, which is being held outside with an open-casket viewing.

Michelle can admit, she hasn’t been to a lot of funerals in her life, lucky enough that the few people she cares about are still alive. That might be why she feels so out of place and out of practice when they arrive.

The first thing she notices is that there are a lot of people, despite it being a private funeral. She assumes a good majority of them are employees and possibly even some friends, though she can’t imagine Norman had many of those. But when it comes to family, Harry is the only one.

“God,” he exhales, running a hand down his face. “I just want to get this over with.”

“It’ll be done before you know it.” She tries to keep her tone reassuring, but it falls flat, just like her mood—the cause being how mourners start flocking in their direction. Some start spewing sympathetic one-liners and smiles—too saccharine to be real. 

Others offer sneers and condescending looks, like they can’t believe that Harry is Norman’s only heir—that Oscorp has practically fallen into his lap.

“Oh, darling, you’re so young. Are you sure you know how to run a multi-billion dollar business?”

“I’m sure the assistants will be doing most of the work, just like they did with Norman.”

“Maybe Oscorp isn’t even going to him. We don’t know what’s in Osborn’s will.”

“Who else would it go to, then?”

Even without the media, people are vicious. Michelle sees the way Harry tenses, his posture rigid. He speaks through his teeth, giving them answers they don’t deserve to have. She’s aware he’s still debating whether or not to take the position, knowing that the current VP would be more than willing.

But the fact that it’s the family business is what makes the decision difficult.

“Well, well. I didn’t realize that they allowed journalists in.”

The familiar, teasing voice is what has Michelle’s head turning, catching her attention above all others. She’s immediately confused, almost caught off-guard, because what the fuck?

“I’m off-duty.” Her voice comes off sharp, maybe a little too loud, but everyone is already so interested in Harry that they don’t seem to give a shit. 

Tony Stark approaches her, slightly amused, his eyebrows raising. “I’m aware. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure you’d be…” He clicks his tongue, jabbing his thumb in the direction of a community dumpster. 

Michelle bites the inside of her cheek, his presence the last thing she was expecting, even though she shouldn’t expect _anything_ from Stark. They haven’t seen each other in years.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“Gotta say the same about you, Michelle,” he replies, thoughtful. “Then again. Pete did mention something once upon a time about you being with the Osborn kid. Didn’t really believe it ‘till now.”

Her face drains of color at the mention, that wound still not healed—won’t be for a long time. She has to push his name back, out of her mind, to even attempt at a normal conversation. “What’s so hard to believe?”

Tony pauses, hesitant for a second, before shrugging. “The family is pretentious as hell. Didn’t think you’d have the patience.”

She snorts. “Did you forget that we’re at a member of said family’s funeral? Nice words only, Tony.”

“Well, I’ve never said one nice sentiment to Norman’s face, and I’m not about to lie now,” he tells her. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t respect him as a business partner...on occasions.”

Michelle shifts on her feet, unsure of what else to say. “Good for you.”

Tony's lips curve upwards a bit. “Good for me. Glad we got that out of the way.” He walks over to a cloth-covered table where there’s water being served and pours himself a glass. “You want one?”

Her throat is dry, but she shakes her head. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He takes a large sip. “You know, Michelle. It’s funny we run into each other here, of all places.”

“Is it?”

“Well. I guess none of us can live up to your sense of humor,” Tony corrects as he leans against the table, chuckling a bit. “I’m just saying. When I thought I’d be seeing a lot more of you lately, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

“I doubt a funeral is what anyone has in mind,” she says, looking away.

“You turned down my fine dining invitation.”

Michelle swallows thickly, crossing her arms. “Yes.”

“Pete seemed to think that was a big deal, came back all torn up about it,” he continues, taking another sip of his water. “The kid gets emotional about everything nowadays, though. Wish he would talk to me more.”

“I’m sure he’s talking to at least _someone_ about it,” she offers, quiet so her voice won’t betray her like it had in the past.

But Tony’s intuitive—always has been. He was the first person to notice her unease, her doubt about being able to fit in Peter’s hectic life back when they were together. He was the one to say ‘ _Tough it out, kiddo. He loves you, and there’s always room for the people you love in your life._ ’

She thought he was right at the time.

Her head hurts, thinking about it now.

“And that someone’s not you?”

Michelle pinches her lips together, breathing out her nose. “It wouldn’t be me.” She turns away, reaching for a glass as an excuse to not look at him. “We’re past that by now.”

Tony purses his lips, nodding. “You know, I always thought you were a smart girl, Michelle. Been told it too many times to forget.” He puts his glass back down, rubbing his hands together. “But then you say things like that, and I don’t know what to think.”

“I know you’re not aware of what’s going on,” she says, exhaling slowly. “But please don’t tell me my intelligence has anything to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it?” He gives her a look that makes it seem like he knows what’s going on in her head. “Sometimes, it’s better to think with your brain rather than your heart.”

“MJ.” A hand suddenly brushes against her back, and she stiffens, breath already caught in her throat. “Woah, sorry. Just letting you know that the service is going to start.”

Tony looks between her and Harry, almost in an amused way, but that doesn’t last. “It was nice talking to you, Michelle. Take care of yourself.” And then he walks away, towards the seating.

It isn’t until Harry takes her to their places in the front row that he asks, “Are you doing okay?”

Michelle blinks, taking a moment to process his words, noting his refusal to look in the casket’s direction. She merely purses her lips, averting her gaze. “Today isn’t about me.”

And when the service runs from beginning to end, she thinks it’s fitting that her eyes aren’t one-hundred percent dry.  
  


* * *

  
Michelle massages her temple as she stares at a mess of words on her computer screen, all of them turning into a conglomerate blur. Her head is pounding, a dull ache that won’t fade. 

She can blame the wine all she wants, having had one glass too many the previous night, but it was her own fault, thinking she could get enough to forget—just for a little while.

Harry had joined her, eager to drown his own sorrows in a newly bought bottle of bourbon. He hates the hard stuff—finds it disgusting, even—but he tucked into the liquor like it was water.

They both had a bad night and an even worse morning.

Regret had seeped out of every breath Michelle took as she made her way to work, thinking about how Harry had a meeting with the corporate to discuss the future of the company.

And now, she’s sitting at her desk, head in her hands as the cursor blinks on the screen—feature article abandoned.

“Hey, Betty?”

“Yeah?”

Michelle cracks an eye open and looks over at her friend, half-pleading. “You don’t happen to have an aspirin in that gargantuan purse of yours, do you?”

Betty frowns, expression automatically spilling with concern as the mother hen in her takes over. “What do you think I am, MJ? Unprepared?” She unclasps the snap and pulls out a pill packet, tossing it over. 

“Thanks.” She downs the aspirin with a swig of coffee, feeling the familiar sting of her eyes when they close. Michelle’s tired, a constant state of being recently. “The next time I want to drink a whole bottle of wine, remind me that it’s a bad idea. Fuck alcohol.”

Betty blinks. “Actually, red wine is good for you. There are antioxidants in it that can help prevent coronary heart disease, not to mention resveratrol—which can prevent damage to blood vessels, reduce LDL cholesterol, and—”

“Betty,” Michelle interrupts, smiling tightly. “Just remind me.”

“Sorry,” she says, flushing a bit. “I read that in one of my magazines.”

Michelle merely nods absently, turning back to the computer in front of her. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She tries to focus back on the main point of her article, reading and re-reading what’s already written. Unfortunately, she never gets the chance to type another letter.

“Jones! My office!”

Carlie’s voice rings through their paper-thin plaster walls, her not even bothering to come out and say that face-to-face. Michelle gives Betty an apprehensive look, uncertainty already running through her head.

She walks hesitantly into the office—a room that’s cluttered with more knick-knacks than a tourist shop on the beach. Michelle wonders if her boss is finally going to cut the string of tension between them and fire her. She doesn’t know if that would be the worst thing to happen.

“Yeah?”

“I just got an email from Stark Industries,” Carlie says, pushing her glasses up, her smile cat-like. “Gotta say, always knew you were gonna get us somewhere, Jones. Your presence specifically is requested at the auction of Tony Stark. He wants you to conduct a few interviews on the people who are bringing their tech.”

Michelle scoffs, pressing her lips together thinly at the thought of Tony pulling strings to get her there. “Why me? I’m off that day.”

Carlie shrugs. “He claims you’re the best writer? I don’t know about that, but if Stark wants you, that’s what he’s gonna get.”

“You can’t just—”

“I’ll pay you double, Jones. Look, I’ll admit. You and me, we’ve had our differences. But this? These interviews are a big deal for business, so you’d be doing me a favor. We need our viewer ratings _up_.”

“With all due respect—”

“Don’t play that card with me. This is now a mandatory assignment,” Carlie says, standing up. Her heels give her an extra three inches, so now they’re eye-to-eye. “Bring us good ratings, Jones. I'm counting on you.” 

Michelle inhales sharply, annoyed, before turning around and leaves the office. Betty’s still at her desk, tapping her pen anxiously against the keyboard.

“What did she want?”

“I have a favor to ask,” Michelle murmurs, tentative. “How would you feel about taking my invitation for Stark’s auction coming up?”

Betty’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “Why?”

“Because Cooper’s forcing me to go, and I can’t.”

“But _why_?”

Michelle closes her eyes, laughing a bit shakily. “Please. You’d be doing me such a huge favor, Betty. All you need to do is interview a few people, and that’s it.”

“MJ. Of course. You know I'll help you out, but there’s obviously something else wrong. As your friend,” she prompts, placing a hand on her arm. “I’m asking...why?”

“Because I can’t—I can’t go if Peter’s there. Okay? I don’t know why Stark’s fucking with me, but I just can’t go,” Michelle admits, quiet.

Betty’s expression remains the same. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah.” She wets her lips, looking away from the understanding eyes of her friend—the only person who knows now other than Harry. “He came back. That’s what happened.”

“Oh...MJ,” Betty whispers, pulling her into a hug. “But I thought...Ned told me you were dating Osborn.”

“It’s fake.” Michelle has to chuckle—as self-deprecating as it is. “And don’t tell me that it’s fucked because I’m already aware. I’m just waiting for Peter to leave again so all of my shit can go back to normal.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll take your place at the auction, alright?”

“Thank you. And—whatever you do, please do not tell your husband about this,” Michelle says, backing out of Betty’s arms.

She doesn’t need another person to look at her the same way Betty is.

She doesn’t need more pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re going to get somewhere soon, don’t worry!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for lying last time. This is really the last flashback :)

_“See, if I would’ve known you were going to get a Stark Phone as consolation, I would’ve broken your old one a lot sooner,” Harry comments, slightly disgruntled as he stares at the piece of new tech in her hand. “And then I would’ve broken mine, too.”_

_“I only got it because Stark and I go back,” Michelle responds, giving him a sour look. “And he probably heard that my phone was broken by an asshole who doesn’t know that swinging a baseball bat inside—at a person—is fucking idiotic.”_

_“I didn’t know you were going to be there!”_

_Michelle pushes at his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter! No one with common sense would try playing baseball in an apartment as shitty and small as ours.”_

_“But that’s not what I was doing,” Harry defends._

_“I don’t care. You think I wanted to accept a free phone in the mail that costs thousands of dollars that I didn’t even work for?”_

_“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”_

_“No. Even if I don’t want it, I still need it,” she huffs._

_Harry exhales and sits back on their couch. “How do you even know Stark, anyway? I’ve never heard you talk about him before.”_

_Michelle frowns, shaking her head. “Why do you care? You probably know Stark too, through your father or something. Don’t the companies have some sort of deal where they can monetize off each other?”_

_“Doesn’t mean I ever got to meet the rich bastard.”_

_“And now, you might never be able to,” Michelle hums, taking a closer look at her new phone. “This probably has a secret camera or something that feeds into a grander security system of everyone who’s bought one of these. He’s probably watching us right now.”_

_Harry gives her an incredulous look. “You think? Like a...prolific serial killer would?”_

_“No, I don’t think.” She rolls her eyes and pulls out the old-school phone book she’s kept under the coffee table, despite Harry continuously making fun of her for it. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to add contacts.”_

_“Me first?”_

_Michelle ignores him and types in her boss’ phone number first. She adds a few more coworkers—the ones she doesn’t talk to but sometimes has to work with for assignments. She adds her parents, Betty, and Ned._

_By the time Michelle gets down the list, she frowns._

_But she adds his number, anyway._

_“It’s a good thing I was able to transfer my own phone number, or you would’ve been toast,” she begins to say, but then Harry cuts her off, peering over her shoulder to see._

_“Peter Parker? Why does he get to go in before me?”_

_Michelle gives him a deadpan look, slightly irritated. “Stop being trivial, Harry.”_

_“I’m just asking,” he huffs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I mean, logically speaking, O comes before P, so I should be before him. But—then again, you always seem to have a secret agenda. Maybe even a little bias.”_

_“Harry, all I’m doing is putting contacts in my phone. I don’t even talk to half of these people, so there’s no fucking bias,” Michelle defends. “Maybe you’re just going in last because I like you least of all.”_

_“I know for a fact that that’s not true. What’s the point of putting in people you don’t talk to?”_

_“Just in case.”_

_“In case of what?” He sounds exasperated, confused. “Email exists for a reason. Enough to get in contact with you but not as personal as a phone number.”_

_Michelle exhales slowly, knowing deep down he has a point. She was never one to have an abundance of people in her contacts just for the fun of it. If they weren’t close to her, they weren’t on her phone. She didn’t have to add her boss or her coworkers. Didn’t have to add Peter._

_But Harry doesn’t know that deleting Peter’s number will essentially rid the only thing she has left of him in her life. Even if they don’t talk, even if they’re not keeping up on their promise of friendship from years ago, deleting his number feels like a finality she’s not ready for._

_She can’t just erase him yet._

_“Just in case,” she repeats, taking in his bewildered expression. “Maybe I’ll elaborate one day when I forgive you for breaking my phone.”_

_“Oh, come on. It was replaceable!”_

_The phone was, in fact, replaceable._

_But the memories on it were not._

_And that just feels like another loss._  
  


* * *

  
“When was the last time you were laid?”

Michelle’s head snaps up from her book as she glances over at Harry, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I’m just saying. It’s probably been a while,” he continues, despite her indignation—even though she can’t tell him the answer herself. “And you look like you need it.”

“ _Excuse me_? I don’t know what goes on in your brain half of the time, which...is probably a good thing,” Michelle says, bookmarking her page as she stands up. “But sex isn’t the answer to the world’s problems, and it certainly isn’t the solution to mine.”

Harry shrugs, mindlessly leafing through a binder of Oscorp terms and conditions that he has to read over. “Like I said. It’s been a while for you, and it’s been a while for me, too. We both have a lot on our plates right now—”

Michelle snorts, something akin to a laugh escaping. “Don’t tell me you’re saying _we_ should fuck.”

“Maybe not each other,” Harry murmurs, looking up from the binder with a slight smirk. “We both know you wouldn’t be able to handle the best sex of your life, Jones. But we should go out. It might be fun.”

“Fun hasn’t been in my agenda as of late, Harry. Besides, I have—”

“Work to do?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing in the direction of her laptop.

“Please, I’m just waiting to get fired at this point.” Michelle rolls her eyes at the thought of her boss’s priorities. “I was going to say...I have sleep to catch up on. I don’t think I’ve had a good seven hours in a row for—too long.”

“Whatever you say, MJ. I, myself, think there’s a girl out there right now who’s just waiting to scream my name tonight,” Harry says with a cocky grin, rolling up his sleeves. 

“And she’ll be calling you a dick in the morning when you try to duck outta there first thing,” Michelle simpers.

Harry wrinkles his nose. “At least I can admit that it’ll be well-deserved.” He stands up, pocketing his phone. “Either way, anything’s more enjoyable than getting joint pain from sitting in this chair for so long, slaving over fucking _rules_. I need a break.”

“You’d think someone who just inherited a billion-dollar company would be more responsible.”

He chuckles sardonically. “They already don’t expect much from me. Why not prove their point?” 

“Smart.”

“Shut up.” Harry pulls his jacket on, quickly slipping his phone out once more to look something up. “Where’s the closest club around here?”

Michelle scoffs, going over to the pantry to make herself a cup of tea. “You’re asking me?”

“Right, forgot that you were a self-proclaimed recluse.” He pauses and then smiles, like he just thought of a joke. “Does that mean you happen to kill your male partners after luring them in your web?”

“That’s a fucking black widow, you moron,” Michelle says, deadpan, as she pushes him towards the door. “Don’t come back until you brush up on your arachnid knowledge.”

“Guess you’ll be leasing for a new roommate. I hate spiders,” he drawls. “But in all seriousness. Feel free to call if you need anything. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“I’m not calling.” She urges Harry out of their apartment, lips curved upwards at the thought of having the place to herself. “Go get ‘em, Osborn.” The door closes on him before he has the chance to say anything else.

The first and foremost thing Michelle finds herself doing once he’s gone is getting her tea together. Chamomile, in all efforts to help her fall asleep. She grabs her laptop as well before retreating to her bedroom.

Doing work is always an option, one that she usually takes when faced with nothing else to do. But—now, being home alone, Michelle finds that it’s her chance to watch a few episodes of _Criminal Minds_ uninterrupted, something that was never possible with Harry around.

She’s not sure if she makes it through one or two by the time her eyes start to droop, tiredness seeping into her bones. Not wanting her laptop to fall off the bed, Michelle sets it on the nightstand and lies back against her pillows.

For once, she doesn’t have a headache before going to bed.

For once, she finally feels _relaxed_.

It’s really nice, Michelle thinks, as she lets her eyes close.

She’s in the state between half-asleep and almost dreaming when her phone chimes with a text. It doesn’t necessarily jolt her awake, but sleep suddenly seems too far away to fade into.

Blindly, Michelle reaches for her phone, feeling around until her hand finds it. The screen is blurry, too bright at first glance. She squints, trying to read the small font.

Her heart drops.

Relaxation is already the farthest thing from her mind as she sits up, a hard frown tugging at her lips.

It’s just one text, and yet, it somehow ruined her entire night.

‘ _I just punched your fucking boyfriend._ ’

From Peter.

_Shit._  
  


* * *

  
Michelle arrives at the club that they were supposedly in, wearing only sweatpants and a t-shirt, but she can’t bring herself to care at one in the fucking morning. The cold air brushing against her skin almost counteracts the heat steadily rising in her cheeks.

They’re standing outside the entrance, Harry leaning against the wall with ice nursing his cheek while Peter’s crouching, right hand cradled to his body. Felicia is lingering next to him, looking just as irritated with the whole ordeal.

“We got kicked out,” the blonde offers as an explanation, bitterness twisting her words. “If you’re wondering why we’re sitting in the freezing cold like a bunch of dumbasses.”

“Oh. Yeah, I...should’ve figured,” Michelle says, shifting from one foot to the other, unsure of how she’s supposed to approach this. “What happened?”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes stormy, before speaking up. “What _happened_? What happened was that—I saw Harry...grinding ass with a girl that wasn’t you, and I thought—I thought...what the _fuck_?” He stands up, swaying on his feet slightly, and Michelle’s well aware of the slur to his tone. “And then I said that—and then I punched him.”

“Goddammit,” she mutters under her breath, closing her eyes. 

“MJ, I’m sorry,” Harry says, wincing. She can see it in his face, the way he’s trying to reconcile the mess they’ve made. But in reality, he didn’t do anything wrong.

This is her fault—for asking him to pretend to be her boyfriend, for shackling him down.

“Don’t—don’t...alright?” She inhales slowly, hoping her expression will give him the clarity that her words can’t. He shouldn’t apologize. “We’ll talk about it when we get home.”

“Looks like I’ll be leaving with a pretty girl after all,” he jokes, merely digging a deeper hole for himself, and the silence that follows shows for it. “God, sorry. I’ll just—I’ll wait in the car.” Harry ducks his head and walks away, the ice pack still pressed to his cheek.

“And to think he was completely sober while getting up in that girl’s business,” Felicia comments distastefully, eyes narrowed into slits. “What an ass.” She then trains her gaze on Michelle, the pity that she’s so familiar with shining through. 

“I—look, we’ll...work it out. It’s fine,” Michelle says, desperately just wanting to brush it off as nothing, but it’s not taken that way.

Peter frowns, unsteady on his feet as he steps forward, Felicia stabilizing him by the shoulders. “How the—how is that _fine_ , Michelle? He...um, Harry—he was going to cheat on you!”

Michelle rubs her hands up and down her arms, the cold finally starting to get to her. “You’re drunk...Peter. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you thought.” She pauses, eyes falling on his red, almost swollen knuckles. “Is your hand okay?” Her voice comes out soft, a little too much for her liking.

“It hurts,” he admits quietly.

“That’s what happens when you don’t know how to punch someone correctly, Pete,” Felicia says with a little huff. “I’ll go see if I can get an ice pack for you, too.” She turns around, back towards the club, leaving the two of them alone.

Michelle wants to go to the car. She feels like a fucking idiot, and she’s freezing.

But Peter’s blinking owlishly at her, not moving a muscle, despite his drunken state. He opens his mouth but then closes it again, like a fish.

“I’m sorry,” she eventually manages, her heart heavy. “For your hand, I mean. I’m sorry.”

Peter frowns again and goes to move closer but evidently isn’t sober enough to do anything without help. Michelle’s breath hitches as he stumbles, nearly tripping into her. He’s close enough that she can smell the alcohol.

“My hand is okay. Are…” He screws his eyes shut, fumbling with his words. “Are _you_ okay?”

She inhales sharply. “Don’t ask me if I’m okay.”

His eyes snap back open, meeting hers, and he swallows. “I’m sorry. Forgot that—we’re...not friends, anymore. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Michelle says with a sigh, knowing that he won’t remember what she’s saying tonight, anyway. “I could never, alright? I just...can’t answer your question right now...because I don’t know. But I don’t hate you.”

_Not at all._

Peter nods, visible relief seeping into his eyes as they flit across her face, searching. “Then why…why did you...”

“No.” She takes a step back so that they’re no longer sharing the same air. “I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re drunk. Felicia’s going to be back with an ice pack for your hand soon, alright? Even though it’s, like, twenty degrees below freezing out here. I’m going to have to go and defrost myself—”

“Are you going to break up with Harry?”

Michelle almost recoils at his question, at the way he’s asking so urgently. “I...I don’t know, Parker. It’s complicated. Look, you’re going to freeze your eyes open out here.” She guides him back towards the entrance of the club where there’s at least warm air blowing. “Wait for Felicia. I have to go, or hypothermia is gonna be calling my name real soon.”

“Okay,” Peter concedes, exhaling out a breath of fog from his lips. She offers a brief, small smile before turning on her heels, preparing to leave.

“Bye, Peter.”

“MJ?”

She hesitates before glancing back, only to see his earnest, cloudy-eyed expression. “What?”

“I just...you deserve—you deserve better than Osborn. I mean, at _least_. But I think—you deserve the best,” he says, mumbling his words, but they ring as clear as day in her ears, and they hurt.

It’s more of a dull ache, though. She’s starting to get used to it.

Michelle merely offers him a half-assed smirk. “The best isn’t available right now, Parker. I’ll take what I can get.”  
  


* * *

  
“For the love of god, stop squirming,” Michelle says, only pressing the cotton ball harder against Harry’s cheek. “You got sucker-punched, which—yeah, my fault—but don’t be a baby about it.”

“Well, I’m _sorry_. It was a _mean_ sucker-punch, alright? You wouldn’t know Parker could do that when you first look at him, but fuck.” Harry winces slightly as she continues to dab hydrogen peroxide atop his split skin. “Think my peers would believe I’m in a fight club if I told them at the meeting? Maybe that would get me some respect.”

“Highly doubtful.” She sighs and tosses the cotton ball away. “At least you didn’t end up with a shiner, which I’m sure whatever girl you were going to go home with would've happily contributed in the morning.”

Harry hangs his head in defeat. “Maybe I could coerce some office girl to sleep with me instead. Got any hot coworkers?”

Michelle places a finger under his chin, tilting up so their eyes meet. “Look, I’m sorry about you losing out on mind-blowing sex. But, don’t even _think_ about trying to fuck anyone I work with.”

“Fine,” he relents.

“In all seriousness, though. I am sorry that I dragged you into the fake relationship shit. That wasn’t really fair of me,” she admits, turning away to put the stuff back. They’re in their bathroom that barely has enough space for one person, let alone two.

“Oh, please. Don’t take all the credit. I was the one who offered to be your fake boyfriend—albeit, a pretty bad one. I should’ve assumed that going to a club wasn’t the smartest.” Harry pauses, standing up. “Then again, why the fuck were _they_ at a club?”

“Don’t know. Not really any of my business.”

“Pretty noble of Parker to punch me in your honor,” he continues, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well. I’m going to come clean about how we aren’t really dating so that it doesn’t happen again,” Michelle says with a tight smile. “Your pretty-boy face will live to see another day.”

Harry frowns. “What? Why? If you think I can’t take Parker, I assure you—”

Michelle scrubs her jaw, tired. “Look, I don’t need anyone to be punching anyone in my honor if there’s no real point behind it. Besides.” She exits the bathroom in favor of going to her bedroom, Harry following. “Keeping up this facade is fallacious and _stupid_. It’s three in the fucking morning, and we’re debating about something that shouldn’t exist. Something that _doesn’t_ exist.”

“But Peter’s going to be…”

“I don’t really care anymore. If he’s happy where he is, then the fact that I used a fake relationship as my safeguard won’t matter.”

“I’m just saying...it’s going to make you seem really pathetic if you tell him, MJ,” Harry warns.

“At least my pathetic-ness will be out in the open then,” she says, toeing at the carpet. “It’s not like he’ll be around for much longer to judge me, anyway.”

“Come on, he’s not going to judge you—”

Michelle makes a noncommittal sound and climbs back into her bed, the same as she had abandoned it two hours earlier. “Are you just going to stand there and contradict yourself? Just be glad that you’ll be in everyone’s good graces again once they know you’re not a cheating son of a bitch.”

“I don’t think I was ever in their good graces,” Harry remarks with an eye-roll before gesturing for her to move over. “Seriously, though. He won’t judge you. Parker’s not that kind of guy.”

“I know that.”

“I know you know that, which is why I don’t think you should worry about being honest...if that’s really what you want to do,” he murmurs, lying back on her pillow. “But he’s going to ask why.”

“I’ll make something up. My honesty only goes so far,” she admits, resting her head. They’re lying side by side on her bed, and she gives him a half-smile. “Thanks for putting up with fake-dating me this long. I’m sorry you got punched for your troubles.”

“Nah.” Harry offers her a smile back, and he leans forward to press a gentle, lingering kiss against her forehead. “It wasn’t so bad.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting there, hang tight!

Michelle is chewing on the end of her pen as she stares at the computer screen in front of her. It’s hard to concentrate on work, she finds, considering how muddled her mind is with other things.

Despite them being significantly less important.

It’s stupid how she has to keep reminding herself that she has a week. That’s six days and twenty-three hours to tell him, discounting the hour that’s evidently just going to be her procrastinating. She knows she shouldn’t wait too long, the fact being that her anxiety builds up the longer she puts something off. 

But leeway is a nice thing to have.

“Hey, so, I have a question,” Betty says, interrupting her inner turmoil. They’re currently sitting together in a cafe, trying to get a head-start on the new article they were assigned to write together. “How much detail is too much detail? See, because I’m trying to describe the interior of this place, right? But I feel like it’s too wordy.”

Michelle peers over Betty’s shoulder to look at what she has. “I don’t think you need to have as much description on material items. Maybe instead of the interior, write about the atmosphere. Pretty sure people don’t care about the _beautifully lined silk curtains embroidered with lace edges_.”

Betty frowns. “I care.” But she still spams the backspace button on her laptop. “Look at me, trusting you.”

“As you should,” she jokes, taking a sip of her tea.

“Ugh. These are the types of assignments that I absolutely _hate_ , and I wouldn’t be surprised if Carlie gave me it to spite me,” Betty huffs, pressing down on her keys a little too hard. 

Michelle absently nods, staring down her own paragraph. She can admit, she can be a critical writer, the evidence in most of her work. Her sentences are made up of critiques and blunt facts that could turn away others, but she was always on the side of telling her version of the truth.

Even if it hurts.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, annoyed at how good she is at being a hypocrite. The truth that she had built a wall around for its own protection is the same one that she can’t let out.

_But is just telling him about Harry enough?_

Michelle doesn’t know.

“Hey, Betty,” she prompts tentatively, nudging her friend’s arm. “How much do you still want to go to that auction?”

Betty looks up from her computer, lips pinched and brows furrowed. “As much as I’d like to meet all of these successful men but more importantly— _women_...it’s not on the top of my bucket list. I’m going in your stead, MJ.”

“What if I said...I changed my mind? You could still come—obviously...as my plus-one. But, uh…” Michelle trails off, swallowing thickly. “I think I’d like to go.”

“Oh?” Her face lights up with a pleased smile. “Fantastic. It’s a date.”

Michelle smiles back, wry but genuine. They both return to their work, and she finds it’s a little easier to progress down the page. She’s tired and it’s late, but her caffeinated cup of black tea gives her energy in spurts.

And all goes well for a while, until a news article pops up in her feed. She doesn’t think much of it, scrolling past to find the information she needs, but then her browser becomes clogged with the same story. It forces her to slow down.

_Breaking News: CEO of Oscorp announced..._

_This just in…_

_New Partnership—_

_Taken under the wing…_

_Tony Stark and Harry Osborn—_

Michelle has to sit back, blinking in confusion at the varying headlines. She glances over at Betty, who seems to already be engrossed in one article.

“So, uh, what’s it say about the whole...deal?” Because she hasn’t gotten any word from Harry, though she figures his day-long meeting just ended a bit ago if the news is anything to go by.

“Should I be shocked? Because I’m not,” Betty murmurs, scrolling down a bit. “The ownership of Oscorp is remaining in Harry’s name—which, no surprise there, but he’s not going to be CEO. That role is going to his VP.”

Michelle tilts her head slightly, thoughtful. “Oh. Yeah, no...that makes sense. He didn’t seem ready for the big boss title.”

“But here’s the...funny thing, I guess? Apparently, Stark offered his mentorship in the whole ordeal. It says he sorta agreed here to take Harry under his wing, teach him the basics of how to run a company that big? Since, uh…”

“Since Norman never did.”

“Exactly,” Betty snorts. “So, Harry’s going to become a CEO soon. Just not... _this_ soon.”

“Stark and Osborn, huh? Funny how things work out,” Michelle says with a lighthearted roll of her eyes. Speaking of, she gets a text from the devil himself.

' _Look at me now, baby! Still own a billion-dollar company without the criticism to go with it ;) this must be what being rich feels like_ ’

‘ _You can’t even order McDonald’s without having to borrow money from me. Doubt that’s gonna change._ ’

‘ _I’ll prove you wrong tonight, MJ. Your fav will be on the table when you get home._ '

Michelle heaves out a sigh, biting back her smile. Betty looks over and smirks at the sight of her texts, nudging her with an elbow.

“Good person to come home to, huh?”

She chuckles a little, shaking her head. “Definitely could’ve been stuck with worse.”  
  


* * *

  
“Oh, boy. You look...dare I say...nervous? Don’t sweat through your pantsuit now,” Harry teases, taking a long look at her as she stands at the island, shoving a last-minute cracker in her mouth.

“Shut up,” Michelle mumbles, trying to catch the crumbs that slip from her hand. She grimaces before straightening up, running her hands down the smooth material to smooth out any lasting wrinkles. “I’m just waiting for Betty to get here, but we might just end up arriving fashionably late.”

“Seems like a Stark move to me.”

“Not a move I want to make.” She blows out a breath and then gives Harry a once-over. “Where are your pants?”

“In the wash,” he replies with ease, stealing the rest of her crackers.

“ _All_ of them?”

Harry shrugs. “Actually, yeah. Along with the rest of my clothes. Stark suggested I take up some business etiquette, so I figured that started with buying some more suits. They’re at the dry-cleaners and figured...why not wash everything else I own?” 

“I’m having a hard time processing what you just said. You—you’re doing laundry yourself? Wow. I’m honestly—I’m shocked,” she says, earning a scowl from him. 

“I’ve done laundry before.”

Michelle snorts and gives him a deadpan look. “You’ve also paid other people to do laundry for you. You’ve probably bribed everyone in this apartment building. If that wasn’t the dumbest way to blow off money, I don’t know what is.”

Before Harry can retort with a snarky response, there’s a sharp knocking on their door. She brushes past him to answer it, finding Betty on the other side in her own pantsuit—though, she’s lacking her usual calm and collected appearance.

“Sorry I’m late. I, uh, I lost track of time for a bit,” Betty explains, sounding somewhat out of breath. She pulls a loose strand of hair out of her face, her smile sheepish. 

“Doing...what?”

Betty scoffs, waving it off while an intense blush creeps up her neck. “Um. Nothing.”

“I’m going to pretend that you lacking lipstick today was purely coincidental, then,” she says, raising an eyebrow before glancing back at Harry. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Here’s to hoping with my dignity.”

“Stop it. You’re going to be just fine,” he assures her, tacking on a brief smirk. “Call me, though, if you see anyone there you think I’d want to hook up with.”

She rolls her eyes, offering him a sarcastic smile in return. “Sure.”

“No offense, but can we cut the chit-chat? We’re going to be late,” Betty groans, grasping Michelle’s wrist and starts tugging her out of the apartment.

“And whose fault is _that_?”  
  


* * *

  
Michelle thought that there were a lot of people at Norman’s funeral—and, yeah, there were a surprising amount—but that’s nowhere near the crowd of people trying to squeeze into the compound’s entrance. She thinks she might have an aneurysm.

“I thought this was an invite _only_ type of get-together,” Betty whispers, pressing into Michelle’s side as they make their way to the doors. There’s barely enough room for the two of them to move past.

“Doesn’t mean there won’t be people trying to sneak in. Be real, there are some desperate folks out here.” Michelle quickly runs out of patience—etiquette be damned—and she starts pushing past the throngs. There are quite a few security guards manning the entrance, though she recognizes one of them as Happy. “Oh. Hi.”

Happy glances up from his clipboard in surprise. “Well, if it isn’t the one person on the list that I thought _wouldn’t_ show up.”

“Almost had you there,” Michelle quips dryly. “Do you mind if we cut?”

“Hey, now. We’ll get a lotta heat for letting you do that,” he responds, stepping aside for the two of them anyway. “Stay away from the dry gin. That stuff’s got my name on it.”

Michelle offers him a small smile before slipping through the gap with Betty. She hears a plethora of protests behind them as the door slams closed once more.

Betty lets out a huff and reaches up to fix her hair that’s just a bit more mussed up. “Have I ever mentioned I hate crowds?”

“Don’t blame you.”

“So.” Her friend starts glancing around the main room, eyes widening ever-so-slightly at the sight. “We’re here for work, right? To...uh, interview people.” But then Betty’s jaw nearly goes slack at the appearance of Pepper Potts, and Michelle doesn’t blame her for that, either.

“Yeah. That’s why we’re here,” she says quietly, nodding, lips almost pressed together in a grimace.

“Great! I’ll—I’ll, uh. I’ll start with Mrs. Potts,” Betty replies, beaming, and then darts away before she can even attempt to get another word out.

“Hey—what are you doing here?” Someone touches the back of her elbow, and Michelle nearly jumps out of her skin. She whips around, and her throat suddenly feels a little too dry. “Oh, sorry! Sorry, my...my bad.”

“No, you’re...good.” She clears her throat, trying to pry out a smile—one that looks genuine enough for him to believe.

Peter fiddles with the cuff links of his crisp suit, returning a smile that ignites a heat in her cheeks and a fire in her gut. “I...I didn’t think you were coming. I mean, last time, you said…”

“I know what I said. I, um…” Michelle tucks an errant curl behind her ear, chuckling a little. “I’m actually here for work.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. Tony was practically begging for the best writer to come,” she says, her lips quirking at the lighthearted tease. “His words, not mine.”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Peter responds, eyes crinkling in the corners to go with his warm grin.

Michelle swallows, shifting from one foot to the other. “Okay, first of all. You’ve never read any of my official work, so you don’t get to have that opinion.”

“Who says I’ve never read any of your work?” He smirks at her, and she wants to call his bluff. She would really love to—if she thought he was bluffing. “I can’t believe Tony didn’t tell me he invited you. What a cruel, cruel man.”

“Cruel indeed,” she murmurs.

“Should I...let you do your job? I know that there are plenty of people here whose egos wouldn’t mind getting an interview. Though...it seems like the best of the best was already taken by Betty,” Peter says, nodding his head towards Pepper.

“I, uh...actually wanted to talk to you about something,” Michelle begins but quickly trails off upon seeing Felicia approach. The blonde comes over, draping a manicured hand over Peter’s shoulder. It’s a nice reality check, though still stings more than a slap in the face.

“Hey, Michelle,” Felicia greets, her smile not too warm and not too cold. She found a middle ground, something Michelle wishes she could do. “What a nice surprise to see you here.”

“Hey.”

Felicia tilts her head, calculating with a cat-like smile. “How are things? I’ve been thinking about you, you know. All of the shit going on with Osborn and the media? If I were you, I’d be fucked, hearing his name everywhere.”

Michelle pinches her lips together, managing a meager shrug. “It’s not a big deal. Honestly, I’m proud of him.”

“Being the bigger person, I see.” Felicia claps her hands together. “You’ve got some tough skin there, Jones.” 

Peter glances between the two of them, an evident frown on his face, before abruptly speaking up. “Hey, I’m going to get a drink. Do either of you want anything?”

Maybe he was trying to do her a favor, shift the conversation from Harry. Maybe he just felt bad for her.

“No,” Michelle says, kneading her hands together.

“Bring me back some of that dry gin, babe.”

“Coming right up,” he says, clearing his throat. Peter shuffles away, towards the table, leaving Michelle with his girlfriend—the same one who’s currently staring through her soul right now. 

“What a sweetheart, that one,” Felicia comments, dropping her head on Michelle’s shoulder. “You would know, of course.” She only gets a noncommittal sound in response. “He was real excited to come up here, you know. Can’t really blame him, either. You’re the type of person that someone would come back for.”

Michelle snorts humorlessly, getting a whiff of Felicia’s strong perfume. “And where did that baseless judgment come from?”

“Not baseless. Look at you.”

Another noncommittal sound.

Peter returns with the drinks, one in each hand. He raises an eyebrow, amusement coloring his expression. “Comfortable?”

“Might just have to elope with your best friend,” Felicia says with a smirk, straightening up. “How would you feel? If I stole her from you?”

“Can’t say she’s mine to steal,” he replies, quiet. 

Michelle blows out a breath, suddenly remembering what she came there to do. “Hey, Parker. I still need to talk to you about something.”

“Actually—it might have to wait. Just a little longer, I promise. It’s just—Tony is going to be starting the auction portion of this before dinner.” Peter gives her a small smile, nodding towards the couch. She withholds her impatient sigh and sits on the other side of him, focus drifting.

Tony takes front and center in front of the crowd, smacking his hands together. “I know that if I wait any longer, I’ll be wasting my own time. We all came here for a reason, right? Whether that be appreciating the greatest tech of our generation, or indulging in the best food—ever, it doesn’t matter because you lucky lot get to do both.”

“Pay attention,” Peter whispers, nudging her in the ribs.

“I am,” Michelle retorts, elbowing him back.

“It’s clear that I’m already _boring_ some of you, so let’s get this started.” Tony makes a gesture at Happy, and they both start pulling tarps off of varying machines and pieces of technology around the room—ranging on the scale from vaguely promising to mildly threatening.

Michelle quickly realizes that no one is going to shut up from that point forward, everyone already chattering amongst themselves at the reveals. She glances at the man next to her who squeezed onto the couch last minute, his enthrall made obvious by the murmurs of awe he lets out.

She can’t blame him.

“I can see the dollar signs in your eyes,” she offhandedly remarks, looking at the man.

“Can’t say you’re wrong there, Miss,” he says, grinning with all teeth. “All of this is impressive. Imagine getting your hands on some of it. That’s money well spent.”

“And these are all...coming from Stark?”

The man shakes his head, laughing out loud. “No, no, no. People from all over brought their own stuff. They think they’re gonna get a higher price for their shit at this auction, and they’re not wrong.”

Michelle nods, feeling slightly dumb for forgetting. That’s the sole purpose Tony sent for her through Carlie—he wanted her to interview people who specifically brought in items. It’ll make for a good article, that’s for sure.

“You’re zoning out again,” Peter speaks up, looking at her. She frowns, indignant, even though she has no idea what Tony’s been saying for the past three minutes.

“Well, excuse me. It’s not like I’m the one who keeps…”

Michelle slowly trails off, swallowing her words as Tony speaks up—speaks louder. Even goes so far as to make eye contact with her.

“And I gotta say, this one here? Not to be biased, but it’s really special. Not just because of the Chemputer itself, which will synthesize pharmaceutical compounds without the need of human intervention, but because of the amount of work and effort put in by the team who built it. That team includes Peter Parker, Johnny Storm, Gwen Stacy…”

His voice quickly fades into background noise as Michelle tries to process what she just heard, lips parted in a way that makes her look like a fish out of water. She turns to Peter, who’s already staring at her—red in the face. Maybe it’s because people are clapping for his Chemputer.

Maybe it’s because she’s looking at him like he hung the fucking moon.

Any train of thought Michelle might have had is swept under the rug as she manages to say, “You...brought that?” Her voice sounds strained, barely withholding emotion.

Peter nods, his smile shy, hand finding the back of his neck. “I brought that. I know it wasn’t, like, the most conventional reveal, especially since it’s not even for sale—but I remember some sort of unspoken promise between us that I’d show it to you. One way or another.”

“Shit, Parker...how—plane?”

“It was a complicated process—and it’s heavier than it looks. Plus, uh...my friends weren’t so keen on me taking it on a cross-country trip to New York, so I had a hell of a time convincing them—”

“Why did you put in so much effort? I mean...if they were so against it.”

“Because,” Peter says in a tone that makes the answer seem obvious, still smiling. “You wanted to see it. I couldn’t just...forget about you—about that.”

Michelle laughs a little, ducking her head so he can’t see her face. “That’s really...that’s great, Peter. I’m glad I actually showed up, then—so all of that work wasn’t for nothing.”

“I’m glad, too.”

“So...that’s why you really came up here? For Stark’s auction?”

“Well, yeah, but...Tony is really bad at checking over his math,” Peter murmurs, breathing out a chuckle. “So that wasn’t a lie.”

“Either way. Your Chemputer is fucking beautiful. Might just have to do an interview with you on it,” she says, voice hushed, barely audible due to the ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘ahh-ing’ around them. He grins at her, anyway, not hesitating to lean forward. His arms wrap around her, pulling her close, and she eases into his embrace, the familiarity of it all like an old friend.

With the way they’re sitting on the couch, both wearing suits that are too expensive to be wrinkled, the hug is clumsy. Dysfunctional. It shouldn’t work. 

But maybe they’re just the type to figure things like that out—always able to smooth away the wrinkles in the end.

“Thanks, MJ,” he responds, soft enough for just her to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of the auction coming soon ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why, but this chapter was annoyingly difficult to crank out. I was writing and re-writing scenes, and I’m still not sure if I’m happy with it.
> 
> Either way, here we go :)

Michelle jots down the concluding statement to her notes, occasionally glancing back up at Peter as he smiles awkwardly, fidgeting on the couch across from her with his hands in his lap. He was nervous during the entire interview, which didn’t really make any sense to her, but she didn’t question him. 

“And we’re done,” she says, flipping her notepad closed and tucking the pencil behind her ear. “Just you wait, Parker. Gonna write an award-winning article right here.” 

Peter's eyes crinkle around the corners, expression easing up. “I fully expect to be credited when that happens—and then I’ll tell you _you’re welcome_ for winning you an award.”

Michelle snorts out a laugh and kicks his leg. “Shut up. Just because it’s going to be _about_ your Chemputer doesn’t mean shit. I’m going to be the one making it sound interesting. Bet if you tried writing about it, you’d put people to sleep.”

“Hey!”

“Hey.” She stands up, shrugging. “That’s the truth.”

“Ouch,” he says, placing a hand over his heart as he stands up as well. “But in all seriousness, MJ. Your writing is the best. Of course you’re going to win an award, whether it be now or in the future.”

Michelle gives him a small smile, raising her shoulders sheepishly. “Thanks, Parker.”

Peter smiles, too, ducking his head. “Yeah.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants, suit jacket abandoned on the back of the couch. “Do you, uh...want to go get dinner? I’m pretty sure it’s being served right now, and Tony claims that he ordered the food from the best restaurant around. I don’t really believe him, since—you know, there are some pretty great places near here that are cheap, and I doubt he went for something cheap—”

“Parker. You’re rambling, and I’m only getting more hungry here,” she tells him with a quiet laugh. He blushes, lips pinched, and nods.

“Sorry. It’s—I mean, you know.”

Michelle hides her own red cheeks behind her hand and follows him back into the main room, the section where there are quite a few dozen dining tables set up. Hired waiters are skirting around with platters of food that look too elegant to eat from, and the room is full of chatter.

“There’s no way you can convince me that Tony actually organized this,” Michelle says to Peter, taking the place between Betty and him at their table. “No way. It was all Pepper.”

“It _may_ have been all Pepper. Tony always had this ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ look on his face while trying to orchestrate where he wanted things,” Peter elaborates, grinning.

“Hey,” Betty speaks up, poking Michelle’s shoulder. She’s pouting. “You’ve abandoned me for the majority of this auction.”

“Sorry, Betty.” Michelle bumps her shoulder lightly, and her friend breaks into a smile.

“Nah, I actually abandoned you first, so...you’re welcome. Without me, you would’ve never…” She glances in Peter’s direction, not so inconspicuously. He’s currently talking with Felicia, who’s sitting on his other side. “It was sweet, right? What he did for you?”

“Uh...yeah. He’s going to have a hell of a time bringing it back...home,” she mumbles, her good mood fading a little at the thought. 

“Don’t think about that right now,” Betty chastises, shaking her head. 

Michelle rolls her eyes, taking one of Betty’s grapes from her fruit bowl and pops it in her mouth. “What would you have me think about instead?”

“Think about how many rich people here are wasting their money by buying overpriced pieces of tech instead of putting what extra money they could’ve had towards a good cause.” She sips her water, shrugging. “I mean, I’ve thought about it.”

“I can only think about that for so long before I get annoyed. Trust me. Harry’s heard the worst of my rants before.”

“Oh, I’m sure he just loves that,” Betty jokes but then quickly casts her eyes away, clearing her throat. Michelle raises a brow before looking to her other side, finding Peter staring—listening.

His face flushes once she quirks her lips, and he looks down at his plate. Both of theirs are still empty, seeing as they hadn’t ordered yet.

“You know what you’re getting, MJ?”

“I highly suggest the crab-stuffed tilapia,” Felicia says, brushing a hand through her hair. “If Pete tried it and liked it—someone who despises fish—then anyone will like it.”

“I don’t _despise_ fish,” he weakly protests.

“You despise fish,” Michelle deadpans.

Peter smirks a little, shaking his head. “Say that to the pet fish I had three years ago.”

Michelle narrows her eyes and glances at Felicia’s curious expression. “The fish that died after _two weeks_. He killed it.”

“That’s not true! It died from natural causes…”

“Let’s move past this, pretend that Peter isn’t a murderer,” Felicia says, laughing slightly. “Just order the tilapia. You tasted mine and liked it.”

Judging by Peter’s face, he doesn’t really want to, his chuckle nervous. “Right. Totally. I...definitely liked it.” He smiles at Felicia, though Michelle can see right through him. She also knows he’s gotten better at controlling his gag reflexes. “I’ll get it if MJ gets the prime rib.”

Michelle’s chin nearly slips from its resting place on her palm. “I’m not getting that.”

“I know. You hate roast beef,” he counters, somewhat smug. “Guess that means I have to settle for something else, then...what a shame.”

“You know what.” Michelle flags a waiter over, one who immediately gives her a smile, all teeth. She smiles briefly in return, though she doesn’t put much effort behind it.

“What can I do for you, Miss?” His name tag reads Brad.

Michelle pretends to think it over, sneaking a look at Peter. He’s staring at her, eyebrows furrowed. “I would like to order the prime rib. And, uh, this guy...he wants the crab-stuffed tilapia. Please.” 

“Coming right up.” Brad reaches around her head to grab the plate, leaning a little close, even though she could’ve easily just handed it to him, which is what Peter does. 

“I can’t believe you,” Peter groans once he leaves, shoving her shoulder gently. 

“What? I thought you liked the tilapia,” Michelle drawls, exchanging a knowing look with Felicia, who can see through his bullshit as well. 

“Mm. Well. You hate prime rib. Why would you do that yourself?”

Michelle snorts, shaking her head. “If Stark’s food is as good as he claims it to be, then maybe I’ll like it.” 

“Hey, now. If you didn’t like _my_ prime rib back in the day, you won’t like anyone’s,” he warns, amusement shining in his eyes.

“Bold of you to assume I liked _anything_ you cooked for me.”

“What—MJ,” Peter splutters, reddening, and he glances back at Felicia helplessly. She doesn’t offer anything more than a shrug, stirring her food on her plate. 

“Kidding. I’m sure Felicia can vouch for your meals,” Michelle sighs, not wanting to venture any further into uncharted territory. They’re being civil—friendly. It’s easy banter right now, and it doesn’t need to include bringing up the past, if only for her own sake. Maybe for his girlfriend’s, too.

Felicia offers a wry smile. “I can. Will I? No.”

“Rude. Both of you.”

“Tough, babe.”

Michelle turns back to Betty, who’s currently on her phone—talking to Ned, no less. She contemplates bringing out her own phone, maybe just to text Harry and let him know how everything is going. 

The only thing is—he’s going to ask her if she told Peter about their ‘relationship’ yet, and she’s going to have to say no. He’ll pester her, and she’ll say she’s just waiting for the right time. It’s the truth, really, but each time Michelle thought it was the right time, something else came up. Something more important.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, since Brad is coming back with their food. Michelle takes care to lean away this time as he places her plate down, the steaming prime rib making her anything but hungry.

“Here you are, Miss,” he says, smiling once again. “I hope you enjoy your meal.”

Brad puts Peter’s dish down after the fact.

“God,” Betty snorts, playfully nudging Michelle’s arm. “What a blatant attempt at flirting. He must think you’re _pretty_.” 

“Guess that means he didn’t think I was pretty,” Peter murmurs, sighing heavily. “He didn’t even look at me.”

“Your poor ego.”

Felicia looks at Michelle, shooting her a smirk that’s a bit off-putting. A bit mean. “What would Harry think if there was someone out here, flirting with his girl?” 

“He wouldn’t care,” she answers, voice monotonous. “We’re not together.”

 _Finally_ , there’s the truth. Michelle almost feels a weight lifted off her chest at the admittance—almost thinks it’ll be downhill from there, that everything else will come out easier.

“Oh, no. You guys actually broke up, then, huh? I should’ve known.” Felicia clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “He didn’t deserve you, that cheating scumbag.”

Peter’s eyes are wide and empathetic as he stares at her, his hands clenching on the table. “Are you okay?”

Well. _Not exactly the truth_.

Michelle bites the inside of her cheek, feeling a bit silly for assuming they’d think it was anything more than a simple break-up. “I’ll tell you later. It’s complicated. Just...eat your tilapia. I’ll eat this shit.” She takes a forkful of the prime rib in her mouth, but regret immediately follows.

Betty is stifling a laugh somewhere in her peripheral vision. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine,” she manages, her mouth still full from not wanting to swallow the roast beef. “God.” 

“Trade me,” Peter says softly, already switching their plates so he has her prime rib and she has his crab-stuffed tilapia. 

Michelle looks at him, at the way he’s smiling at her, before turning her gaze down. “You got off easy, Parker.”

That gets a noncommittal sound out of him before he digs a spoon into the fish in front of her, eating it with just a slight scrunch to his nose. She doesn’t say anything when he looks at her again or when his knee jostles hers under the table, maybe by accident. Or, maybe not by accident because he doesn’t move it away.

“Happy?”

She knows he’s trying to get a smile out of her.

“Close enough.” Michelle’s lips curl up, just a little.  
  


* * *

  
Michelle pushes her empty plate away from her—the only reason for it being empty is that she gave half of her food to Felicia. She was full and didn’t want leftovers, which were known as the bane of her fridge’s existence.

Harry had called her sometime in the middle of their dinner. Her phone was sitting on the table, which—sure, bad manners, but she didn’t really care at that point. Peter looked and Betty looked, and Michelle had to decline his call.

The conversation had died down at that point and hasn’t really picked back up again. They’ve been sitting in silence, listening to the guy across the table from them talk about his sanctuary in Alaska for some exotic animal that Michelle has never heard of.

All she knows is that it’s beautiful and wonderful and magnificent, because that’s the only thing he’s been prattling on about for the past thirty minutes.

Michelle doesn’t want to come off as rude, but she does want to excuse herself to call Harry back. Saying something would only interrupt the man, so she doesn’t, wordlessly standing up instead.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom. I’ll be back,” she says, walking away from the dining area. 

Michelle knows exactly where the restrooms are in the compound, but she doesn’t go to find one. She wanders into an empty bedroom instead and sits down, her fingers already dialing his number. He picks up quickly. 

“Hey,” Harry greets, a little breathless, and she assumes he’s either finishing a workout or having sex.

“Did I interrupt something?”

He hums on the other end. “I’ve been moving furniture around.” 

Michelle frowns, putting him on speaker so she can lie down on the bed. “You’ve been _what_? And why?”

“Getting my feng shui on, MJ. And what about you? I’m assuming that I interrupted something earlier, seeing as you graciously declined my call.”

“Just dinner. Nothing important.”

She can practically hear the pout in his voice. “Then why didn’t you answer?”

“Because,” Michelle hisses, lowering her voice. “I’m an idiot. I know I’m an idiot. I finally told Peter the truth, but it wasn’t fucking _straightforward_ enough, so now he just thinks that you and I broke up.”

“What? Are you kidding? Come on, MJ. How can you mess this up? _Tell_ him that you and I aren’t a thing—were never a thing. Let that be it so we can finally...I don’t know, relax?”

She massages her temple, eyes closed, nodding. “I’ll...get there, alright? I’ll tell him before I come home tonight. Promise.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m holding you to that, or else I’ll throw away at _least_ five of your books,” he says, though she knows his threat is empty. “But, anyway. Aside from you being a dumbass and a half...how’s the auction going?”

“It’s alright. Not as bad as I thought it would be, if I’m honest,” she admits. “I’ll fill you in on everything later when I get home.”

Harry snorts. “As long as you don’t come back with more arguments about the inequality of wealth in society. Again. If that happens, I might just kick you out.”

Michelle’s voice drops into a deadpan. “You can’t kick me out. I’m paying half the bills.”

“Guess who can afford to pay _all_ of the bills now? This guy,” he gloats. 

“That is true. Congrats. It’s almost like you’re becoming an adult,” she says, purposely slow. 

“Oh, is that the epitome of adulthood?”

Michelle opens her mouth to respond with something that would surely bring the indignance out in Harry, but then there’s a knock on the doorframe. She sits up, seeing Peter standing in the hall with a perplexed look on his face.

“Hey, you know, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” She hangs up her phone before he can ask why.

“I...thought you were going to the bathroom? I mean—I’m just wondering since you’ve been gone for a bit...and I was wondering if you got lost,” Peter explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you?”

“Did I get lost? No. I was just...I needed to make a phone call. That’s all,” Michelle excuses, waving it off. She slips off the bed and gestures for him to leave so she can follow, but he doesn’t.

“If you needed to call someone, you could’ve just said so.”

“Yeah. I could have.” But she didn’t, and it’s not really that big of a deal. 

Peter takes a step forward, wringing his hands. “MJ...I just have to ask, and I know it’s really not my business, but did you...call Harry back? Only because I saw his name earlier—and I hope you know you don’t owe him anything.”

Michelle’s expression softens and she pinches her lips together. “Parker, whatever’s going on between Harry and I isn’t what you think. I’m okay, and this...isn’t necessary.”

“Can’t I be worried about you?”

“There’s no need—”

“MJ,” he repeats, a little more frustrated and desperate. “Look, I know things between us haven’t been...great in the last couple weeks. But—that doesn’t mean you can’t be open with me if you’re hurting.”

Michelle meets Peter’s eyes, feeling a swirling sensation in her own stomach. His words are a sheer reminder that things have been rockier than anything, and both of them are even skirting around what was said that night in the park.

The fact of the matter is, she really can’t be open with him. Not in the way he wants—not with her emotions.

“I think that speaks for itself, Parker. Come on, let’s just...go back,” she says, hoping he’ll read between the lines and drop it.

Peter’s face falls, expression going blank. “Right.” He shakes his head, turning away from her. “Whatever, MJ.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m _fine_ —”

“Of course you are. You’re always fine. You were fine after telling me that we couldn’t be friends anymore, and you’re fine after this breakup—and I’m starting to wonder if you even feel _anything_.”

Michelle recoils, anger flaring up in her gut. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was so happy-go-lucky that night, Parker. Did my tears really sell that for you?”

“Well, it sure as hell didn’t seem like you cared. At least, not about what I wanted,” he fires back. “That decision, it was all yours, MJ. Not mine.”

“I’m not going to repeat the past three years over again. You think a friendship can survive with thousands of miles separating it? Where’s the fucking evidence, Peter? Because it’s clearly not with _us_.”

Peter eyes harden as he looks down. “I can’t believe you. You know, I thought really tonight was an olive branch being offered. That, maybe, you didn’t really mean what you said that night and we could just...move past it. Guess not.” He steps towards the door first.

Michelle swallows the stone in her throat and closes it in front of him. “Can you blame me?” 

“You want to throw away a _decade’s_ worth of friendship—”

“Can you _blame_ me, Parker, for not wanting to relive every moment where I was sitting in my apartment, missing you. For not wanting to have to think about what you’re doing or who you’re dating or where you’re living. Or—for not wanting you to come back here because I know you’re going to leave again and _again_.”

There’s a moment when they’re both silent, and it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room.

“MJ,” he finally manages, something unidentifiable in his eyes. His voice sounds strangled as he outstretches a hand, reaching for her. She side-steps him.

“When I learn to stop crying over you, maybe we can work something out,” Michelle says, quiet, her cheeks hot and damp. He snaps his mouth shut, chest heaving as he looks at her.

There’s a knock on the door. It draws their attention away from each other. 

Peter swipes his sleeve across his face before opening it. Tony’s standing there, giving them both a look that a parent would give their arguing children.

“Now, these walls aren’t paper-thin, but they’re not industrial steel, either. With all that yelling, I thought that one of you was going to end up dead if I hadn’t intervened,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry, Tony,” Peter responds, barely above a whisper.

Michelle can’t bring herself to apologize for anything. “Maybe steel walls would be a good investment.”

Tony snorts in amusement. “Maybe so, Michelle.” He turns back to Peter. “There’s something I’d like to talk with you about, kid. Since we’re already conveniently tucked away, I figured there’s no better time but the present.”

“Can it wait a little longer? I’m sure Felicia’s wondering—”

“This won’t take more than a few minutes,” Tony interrupts firmly.

Michelle shoves her hands in her pockets, ignoring the way that Peter keeps looking at the ground and especially the way that Stark’s looking at both of them. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

She slips out the door without another word.  
  


* * *

  
Michelle finds she can’t do anything more than smile and nod as the person she’s been interviewing for the past ten minutes blabbers on about her latest phone model. 

Even if Michelle wanted to write an article about the woman’s holier-than-thou god complex, or about how the phone was going to be ‘ _so in demand that people are going to throw their money at me_ ’, the tip of her pencil broke. 

And what a shame that was.

“The AI system ingrained in my phone is smarter than most these days, and she can be hooked up to control your home security, your car, and any appliance, of course.”

“Really? So, it’s taking after Stark’s AI, then?” Michelle rests her chin on her palm, smiling dryly at the women as she scowls. “FRIDAY 2.0?”

“Please,” she scoffs, waving her hand while a red flush creeps up her neck. “They’re not alike in that many ways.”

Michelle nods. “Okay. Well. Thank you for sharing. I think that concludes our interview.” She stands up, ignoring the woman’s snort of indignance, and walks towards Betty. Her friend is talking animatedly to someone, hands flying all over the place.

“MJ!” Betty turns towards her excitedly. “I want to introduce you to someone. This guy—Mr. Baquet, he’s the chief editor of NY Times.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Baquet greets, his smile kind. He sticks a hand out for Michelle to shake, which she does after wiping her sweaty palm on her pants. “You’re...Michelle Jones?”

“I am.”

“Your friend has been talking about you,” he says, nodding at Betty. “Great things, of course. Apparently, you’re the best writer at your company.”

“Betty,” Michelle says through gritted teeth, glaring at her friend, despite the deep appreciation she feels for the opinion. “What have we said about telling people things that aren’t true? You’re just as good as me, if not better.”

Mr. Baquet laughs in amusement, eyes flicking between them. “I can be the judge of that, though I’m sure you’re both equally fantastic. I’ll keep a lookout for your work.”

“Thanks,” Betty squeaks, smiling from ear to ear.

“Of course.” He taps the glass of wine in his hand with his forefinger. “You two enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Michelle whirls around once he walks away, gaping at her friend—whose smug smile has only widened. She doesn’t know what to say, except: “What the fuck was that, Brant?”

“Everything we’ve ever wanted. Cheers, MJ.” Betty raises her glass, clinking it with the water bottle in Michelle’s grasp. “You’ll thank me later when he gets to read your amazing article.”

“Right,” Michelle drawls, sarcastic. "And that one would be...?”

Betty purposefully glances over her shoulder in the direction of the couch. “The one that hasn’t come out yet.” 

Michelle feels her breath hitch after following her gaze, seeing that Peter and Felicia are sitting together, one of his hands covering hers. It’s clear that they’re talking about something serious, and it feels wrong to watch them. She can’t look away fast enough, angling her body away from them.

“How much longer did you want to stay, Betty? It’s getting late.”

“It’s up to you. Of course, I’m not going to be able to drive...I did have a few glasses of wine to drink, getting that resveratrol in,” she rambles, practically glowing under the bright fluorescent lights. Michelle doesn’t know if it’s because of her complexion or the amount of alcohol she ingested.

“That’s fine. Just give me your keys—I can drop you off at your house and then return your car tomorrow.” Michelle lightly bumps her shoulder, and Betty hands them over with a smirk. 

They start heading towards the entrance, following the few people that are leaving at the same time. To get there, they have to pass the couch.

Inevitably, Michelle’s eyes fall on Peter. He’s grinning softly at Felicia. 

And, well, he’s happy.

She’s about to step away, give them their space, but then Peter stops looking at Felicia. His gaze turns toward her instead.

Michelle can’t do anything more than shoot him a small smile, albeit—slightly awkward, and lifts her hand in a pathetic half-wave.

Peter’s eyes widen and he scrambles off the couch.

“Wait, MJ!”

Betty is the one to pull Michelle into a standstill, having generously slowed down before her. He approaches them, face flushed and expression sheepish, probably because he didn’t expect them to actually stop.

She raises an eyebrow at him, shifting from one foot to the other. “You beckoned?”

“I, uh...I was hoping we could talk. You and me. I just—it won’t take long,” he mumbles, giving her a thin-lipped smile. “Please.”

“Okay,” Michelle agrees eventually, bobbing her head. She hands the keys back over to Betty. “Do you think you could warm up the car? And, um—if you leave without me, I swear to god, I’ll haunt your dreams.”

Betty tosses her a grin before turning toward the door. “You already do.”

Michelle rolls her eyes and then looks back to Peter, who’s just staring at her. He smiles, and she smiles back, feeling a bit weird—in a good way. She can’t really describe it. 

But that feeling disappears when she realizes that this is most likely the last chance she has to tell him the truth—the same truth she’s been putting off all day and nearly forgot about. When Peter goes to open his mouth, she interrupts him.

“I have to tell you something first. I’ve been trying all day, and—you know. It…” She trails off, inwardly wincing at the thought while keeping her expression neutral. “It sort of has to do with our argument earlier. You know, when you accused me of being emotionless.”

Peter’s face flushes and he looks down. “God, I shouldn’t have said that. You—you’re not emotionless, MJ. I was just…”

“Confused. No, I get it,” she says, raising her shoulders sheepishly as she sticks her hands in her pockets. “Harry and I didn’t break up. We were never together in the first place, so. That’s why I’m fine.”

_There it is._

Anything that Peter was about to say falls flat as he stares at her, eyebrows furrowed. “You...what? What do you mean _you were never together_?”

Michelle bites the inside of her cheek. “I mean exactly that.”

“So you were pretending this _whole_ time?”

“Yeah.”

Peter throws his hands up, and she fears she’s confused him even further than before. “What the fuck, MJ? Why would you do that?”

Michelle’s defenses go back up, protecting the real reason behind deflection. “Why did you think I had a fucking boyfriend in the first place?”

“What? I just—I don’t know,” he mutters, looking away, cheeks red. “I thought...I mean, you were living with him. And—you guys seemed close from what I saw, and...I don’t know. He was flirting with you.”

“You got that from, what, our video chats? Are you kidding? No. We’re just friends, Parker,” she huffs. “He was nice enough to pretend to be my boyfriend because…”

_Goddamnit. She didn’t mean to go there._

“Because...of what? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“ _Because_. Because...you threw me off. You asked if I wanted to come on a date with you and Felicia, and I didn’t want to go alone, okay? I knew I would have a bad time if I did, even though…” She snorts. “Even though bringing him didn’t change anything.”

Peter’s voice softens with an emotion she can’t place, and he steps closer to her. “What do you mean?”

Michelle wants to scream. This isn’t the truth that was meant to come out, but it’s too late. Her mouth is moving faster than her brain can think.

“I didn’t want to see you with Felicia, alright? And Harry knew that—he knew how I felt about you.” She squeezes her eyes closed. “ _Feel_ about you.”

“Em...”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t say anything,” Michelle blurts out with a watery laugh, still refusing to look at him. “If you wanted a reason behind my jackass behavior recently, there it is. God.” She turns around, feeling like a weight was finally lifted off her chest, and yet, she still can’t breathe.

“Wait—where are you going? MJ—I still need to tell you something.”

“Right. Sorry.” She faces him again, wryly smiling because she can’t look him in the eyes. “What was it?”

“Tony’s going to be building a new lab up here in Manhattan,” Peter says, softly, like this really means something.

“Okay. And?”

“He’s offering me a job as the director.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions, decisions...the end is nigh!


	10. Chapter 10

Michelle is huddled in her bed that night, staring up at the ceiling. She’s tired, having been laying there for an hour now, but her mind won’t stop processing what happened that evening. She groans in frustration, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

The door of her bedroom cracks open, letting in a sliver of light. Harry peeks in, his mouth set in a thin line.

“You know, I can hear your inner turmoil from my room. Turn your brain off, MJ,” he says, and she rolls onto her side in response, away from him. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m trying, Osborn,” Michelle retorts, throwing a pillow at the door. He closes it before impact is made, and she releases a sigh.

It’s two in the morning.

She can’t stop thinking.  
  


-

  
_(five hours earlier)_

“He’s offering me a job as the director.” 

Michelle has to take a moment for her mind to catch up, has to repeat his words a few times in her head to process them. His eyes flit across her face, expectant with a bit of nervousness sprinkled in.

What is she supposed to say to that?

“Tony...is building a lab? For you,” she eventually manages, pressing her lips into a smile, despite the uncertainty behind it all. The last thing Michelle wants to do is get her hopes up.

“Not—not for me. This was already in his winter plans. But, uh...he said that since I basically already oversee everything back at the lab in California...this wouldn’t be a big change. Except, you know. Better pay,” he rambles, laughing awkwardly. “I haven’t made my decision yet because he literally told me a few hours ago, but…”

Michelle nods, rubbing one hand up and down her arm. Cold air is blowing through the front doors that keep opening due to guests leaving. “Yeah, it’s...a big deal, Parker.”

She really doesn’t know what to say or think about any of it. Her mind is stuck in a void between their previous topic and this one. For some reason, the possibility of him moving back to New York never came across her mind, most likely because he was thriving in LA. He was making a home for himself.

Would he tear himself from that just for a job?

Peter ducks his head, peering up at her from under his lashes. “What...do you think I should do?” 

“I can’t answer that. I’m biased,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes.

“I figured,” he says, preening, his smile shy. “I was hoping you would tell me, anyway. Obviously, everyone’s opinion is important.”

Michelle wrinkles her nose. “You trigger my upchuck reflexes, Parker. Some opinions are more important than mine. Have you talked to Felicia about this yet? What did she say?”

Peter straightens, hands absently rubbing at his forearms, sleeves pushed up long ago. “She said...that her life is in California. That she’s not going to move across the country for me. If I left...that would be it.”

Would he tear himself from his _girlfriend_ just for a job?

Michelle sourly thinks that this situation is coming around full-circle. 

“Well. It’s up to you to decide if the few extra bucks are worth it,” she says, wryly smiling. Despite her posture saying she’s calm, her heart is beating in her ears. “But, be real. Money over love seems like a dick move.”

“I don’t think you realize that it’s not just about the money, Michelle,” he murmurs, voice lowering. “You’re up here, too.”

“Don’t make this into a decision that’s between me and her.”

Peter’s breath hitches, and he ducks his head. “I won’t. I’m not. Tony and May and Ned...they’re all here. My family is here.”

“Felicia’s your family, too. Don’t let yourself turn into a pining mess, Parker.” She snorts humorlessly, plucking at the buttons on her jacket. “And—I’m not speaking from experience. I’m not a mess. But _you_...would be.”

“Hey.” He steps closer to her, though she’s not sure if it was by choice or because someone had carelessly bumped into him from behind in their haste to leave. “Wouldn’t be my first rodeo. How many times do I have to tell you that I missed you, too...for you to believe me?”

Michelle bites her tongue. “I don’t _not_ believe you. There’s just a big difference—”

“There really isn’t. I thought about you when I was in California, MJ. Constantly. And...even when I wasn’t thinking about you, I was still missing you.”

“If only our long-distance communication wasn’t so fucked,” she utters, raising an eyebrow. “And we weren’t so stupid.”

“If only,” he muses, nodding, vehement. “Seriously, though. The feeling of not being able to be around you or talk without thousands of miles separating us? Horrible. Couldn’t stand it.”

Michelle absently smiles, looking at him while also refusing to recognize the emotion in his expression that’s so evident. “That’s a nice sentiment.”

“The last thing I want is to feel that again.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Parker. If you leave Felicia for a job...or even for us, you probably _will_ feel that again. You’ll regret it—and you’ll know you made a mistake that you can’t fix.” She swallows, hoping she’s at least making him see both sides—hoping that he understands that it’s just as hard being the one who leaves as it is to be the one left behind.

If he chooses California, Michelle won’t be mad. She’s already come to terms with a lot of things, and with her feelings out there, maybe moving on wouldn’t be so hard.

But if he chooses New York, she can at least say she warned him—about how he would feel, about how his ex would feel—and then prepare herself for him to mope around, missing her.

“I’ll think about my decision long and hard,” Peter murmurs, deliberately drawn-out, and he smiles. “And then I’ll call you first.”  
  


-

  
Michelle sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes a little too vigorously. The tiredness doesn’t magically go away, but she feels just as—if not _more_ awake than before. She knew even before she got home that sleep wasn’t going to come that night.

That’s why she turns on the light and reaches for her laptop.

If she can’t have a normal circadian rhythm, the least she can do is be productive with her time.

Her notes are sitting by her bed on the nightstand, despite her not needing them. Everything that she had jotted down earlier during the interview is still in her head.

Even though it’s two in the morning and even though she’s thoroughly exhausted, Michelle finds that it’s much easier to fill up her empty document with words when writing about something or someone she truly cares for.  
  


* * *

  
“You’re really bad at this, you know,” Harry says with a grin, sneaking a look at her as she stares at the television, brows furrowed in concentration. At least, until she dies again. “Did I say really bad? I meant fucking terrible.”

“Okay, _first_ of all, I don’t sit on my ass all day playing video-games,” she retorts, throwing the controller into his lap. 

“You say that like I do.”

She raises her voice, ignoring him. “And second, this shooter game is shit. It’s unrealistic and not just because of the zombies. Where are the physics in shooting? Why is it glitching so much? And, you know what, there’s a lot of fucking _lag_.”

Harry clicks his tongue. “Excuses. Maybe you ought to brush up on your skills while I…” He lifts his laptop onto the coffee table, powering it on. “Actually get some work done. Stark sent me some spreadsheets, and I have no idea what to do with any of them.”

“This is why Oscorp is lucky to not have you as their CEO.”

“Hey! I’ll get there someday,” he scoffs, rolling his shoulders before cracking his neck in the worst way. “You’re supposed to be my support system, MJ. I don’t have anyone else.”

“You don’t need anyone else,” Michelle says with a slight smile, nudging his shoulder. “I’ll always have your back.”

Harry looks at her and grins unabashedly. “Aww. Thanks.”

She makes a noncommittal sound and closes out of the video game, if only to stop seeing the words ‘ _you died!_ ’ flashing in a consistent red. She quickly migrated to her phone, debating whether or not to check her ever-growing pile of spam emails.

Thankfully, she’s spared from the decision when her phone rings.

But disappointment twists like vines around her heart when she sees it’s just an unknown number.

It’s been three days since the auction, and Michelle hasn’t received a call from him yet, which is disconcerting but also understandable. It takes time to make a big decision like that, but he’s set to go back to California tomorrow.

Michelle knows that if Peter leaves without saying anything, then his choice speaks for itself. 

Harry notices her expression and since he essentially knows what’s going on, he takes the phone from her hand, answering it himself.

Well, attempts to.

He doesn’t actually say anything before frowning. Harry quickly hands her the phone back, mouthing ‘ _it’s for you_ ’.

“Yeah, no shit,” she whispers without any heat, putting the phone up to her ear.

The service isn’t the best in their building, but she can hear his name loud and clear. “—is Dean Baquet from The Times. Have I reached Michelle Jones?”

Michelle nods her head, despite him not being able to see her. “Yes. Not to be rude, but why...uh, why are you calling me? And how did you get my number?”

He chuckles humorously. “Well, first and foremost, I contacted your boss, Carlie Cooper. I’m calling to talk to you about your newest article, Miss Jones... _The Inner Workings of the Chemputer_? I have to say...I’m highly impressed with the skill level of your writing.”

“I...I’m glad,” Michelle says, posing it almost like a question. “But thank you.”

“I enjoyed how you included the team behind the project as a big part in your article alongside the technological bits, seeing as they really are the ‘inner workings’. And your prose? Amazing.”

She smiles, though doesn’t know what else to say. “Thanks.”

“I guess I am getting a bit off-topic...I mainly called, Miss Jones, to see if you would like a spot in the NYT.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well. I certainly didn’t call to lie to you.”

Michelle turns to Harry in disbelief, even though he doesn’t know what’s going on. “You...you want to hire me after reading that article?”

“After I read that one, I read a few more pieces of your work. You truly are talented, Miss Jones, and I think you’d get more exposure and experience working with us. Of course, it’s entirely up to you. Give me a call back if or when you would like more details pertaining to the job.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’s...okay,” she agrees. “Thank you.”

“Have a good rest of the day,” he returns, and then their call ends. 

Harry immediately snatches the phone from her, giving an incredulous look. “Jones, what the fuck was that? You got a new job offer and didn’t immediately take it?”

She takes the phone back and pockets it, rolling her eyes. “I can’t _not_ take time to think about it, Harry.”

“What is there to even think about? MJ, you hate your boss. You hate your hours, and you hate the morality of the company,” Harry reminds her, as if she had suddenly forgotten the hell she’s been through in the past two and a half years.

All of the above is true. There really is no reason to stay, aside from Betty, who undoubtedly deserves such a promotion as well and undoubtedly will get it.

She should take the job.

“You’re right. I should call him back.”

“Call him back. You deserve this, Jones.”  
  


* * *

  
Michelle gives Carlie her two-weeks notice the next day, knowing there’s no reason to prolong anything. She figured it was better to do it through the phone and not in person, especially with someone who has a temperament like her boss.

Soon to be _ex-boss_.

It’s a nice sentiment, Michelle thinks. The upside of getting a new job is that if you started at rock-bottom, it can only improve from there.

After talking to Carlie, she doesn’t look at her phone for the rest of the day, but she keeps the ringer on...just in case someone else calls.

No one does.

Harry kindly offers condolences that she’s already heard ten times over. They didn’t make a difference then, and they certainly don’t now. The only stark contrast is that she didn’t have any reason to get her hopes at that time.

But _this_ time, she did.

Michelle knows she’ll get over it. She’ll always wonder why he didn’t call once, not even to let her know his decision, but she’ll get over it.

They’re in the kitchen when someone knocks on the door. Michelle was doing some work on the computer while also supervising Harry as he tried to figure out how to properly cook a ham in the oven. It’s late, and they haven’t had dinner yet. She really didn’t want to count on him to cook, but she also wanted to see if he’s improved.

“My hands are sort of full, MJ,” Harry grunts, trying to sort the ham in its foil. She slides off the stool and goes to open the door.

Surprise, surprise.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be...you know. On a plane,” Michelle says, keeping her expression neutral. “With your girlfriend...to go back home.”

Peter gives her a sheepish smile, raising his shoulders. “I’m already...home?”

She blinks once. Twice. “What?” Can’t comprehend.

“I decided to stay. Well, I mean—I need to go back to California eventually to get my stuff, but...I’m taking the job here. Felicia took tonight’s flight herself,” he explains. Not that she needed him to explain, but in reality, she should probably be glad he did.

Michelle swallows, nodding slowly. “Oh. Took you a long-ass time.”

“You gave me a lot to think about. And—uh, I decided that I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, because that seemed a little anticlimactic. So, I’m here...probably at the worst time considering it’s dark out, but I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.” He rocks on his heels, hands folded behind his back.

“That’s okay. Ned’s going to be really happy to hear that you’re staying. And May, too, probably.”

Peter nods, pressing his lips into a shy smile. “What about you? Are you...happy?”

“I’m...yeah,” Michelle admits, finally breaking into her own hushed, emotional laugh. “Yeah, I’m happy, Peter. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he immediately replies, eyes shining as he steps forward. They hug and it’s tight and suffocating and everything they’ve ever needed in the past three years.

“You’re not going to be, like...a sobbing mess anytime soon, are you? About your...breakup?”

Peter pulls back, breathing out a chuckle. “No. Felicia and I ended things on good terms. We agreed to call each other occasionally, but that’s all. And—before you say anything, no—I’m not going to regret my decision down the line. Because, believe it or not, MJ, I’m really happy to be back.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but thanks for the clarification,” she jokes, shifting from one foot to the other. “Hey, do you want to...come in? Harry was just in the middle of trying to cook some ham because we _are_ the type of people to eat dinner at eleven.”

“Sure.”

Michelle closes the door behind him as he steps inside. She watches the awkward wave exchange between Harry and Peter before shaking her head.

“Hey, man,” Harry greets with a nod.

“Hey.” Peter smiles slightly, taking a seat at the island. “Ham, huh? How’s it coming?”

“Oh, you know. Could be better. If only they added legible instructions instead of...whatever this is.”

“There are these things called recipes,” Michelle comments offhandedly, not looking up from her laptop. “If you ever feel like making something edible.”

“Right, because they worked so well when you tried,” Harry snorts.

“I mean. He’s not wrong, MJ,” Peter says, receiving a smirk from Harry. “I remember that time when you tried to make chili but you used...cinnamon instead of chili powder? Unless the recipe called for that.”

“Oh, shit. That’s even worse than the lasagna she tried.”

Michelle snaps her computer closed and gives them both deadpan looks. “Okay—you’re going to burn your fucking ham.”

“At least it’ll give it that smoky taste.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, Parker. See, you know what you’re talking about,” Harry says with an approving nod. “Come over here. Help me.”

The two of them work on the ham together, and for once, the fire alarm doesn’t go off. Michelle smiles when they deposit a plate in front of her and the food doesn’t taste half as bad as it normally would have.

The three of them do manage a conversation. Somewhere in there is a mention of Michelle’s new upcoming job, of her article. Harry and Peter praise her, and she has to change the subject because there are only so many times she can say _thank you_.

And—somewhere in there, an apology arises from Peter to Harry for punching him that one time. Harry, saying it’s no big deal, that he would’ve done the same thing. Peter, nodding and smiling.

They all find themselves laughing in the end, and before she knows it, Michelle is escorting Peter back to the door.

“Sorry for staying so late. I had a good time,” he tells her, grinning softly.

“Me, too,” she says, sincere. “And, don’t worry. At this point, I’m practically crepuscular.”

Peter snorts in amusement. “I feel that on a spiritual level.”

Michelle smiles, supporting herself against the unstable door. “You doing anything tomorrow, Parker?”

He straightens up, shaking his head. “Other than working out some project kinks with Tony, not really. Why, are you?”

“Nothing other than work in the evening.”

Peter’s expression brightens. “Would you maybe want to hang out? Beforehand?”

“If you didn’t ask, I would have.”

“Great. Awesome. So...I’ll call you—for real this time, and we’ll figure out the details,” he murmurs, smiling.

“Sounds good,” Michelle says, nodding, and she gives him a two-fingered salute. “See you then.” She starts to close the door, but Peter stops her real quick with a few words.

“Wait! I just...I wanted to say something earlier, but I thought it would be weird...and when I think about it now, it _is_ weird. But, uh...I’m glad that out of everyone you could’ve chosen to be your fake boyfriend, you chose Harry. It’s...obvious that he really cares about you, so...I feel bad for not really liking him. In the beginning, that is.”

Michelle raises an eyebrow, half amused and half confused. “You didn’t like him? I don’t think he liked you either, but minor details.” 

“Yeah, but we’re past that,” Peter says with a _pfft_ , waving his hand. “I’m sure we’ll be friends in no time.”

“And _I’m_ sure you’ll absolutely sweep him off his feet,” she drawls. “Maybe even run away together.”

“Well, I am single.”

“So is he.” A thoughtful beat passes. “So am I.”

Peter smiles, and he ducks his head, a blush blossoming across his cheeks. “Is it betrayal...choosing between you two?”

“It is if you pick wrong,” Michelle jokes.

“Harry will forgive me. The heart wants what it wants,” Peter murmurs softly, and she feels a light brush of his hand against the back of hers. They stare at each other, and the familiar feeling that she’s missed bubbles up in her heart. “When?”

Michelle knows what he’s asking, knows that there’s no right answer when it comes to them.

“Only time will tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re almost done! I think we can all guess what’s coming in the last chapter <3


	11. Chapter 11

Her eardrums are screwed.

Looking back, Michelle figures this was her own fault. She should have never agreed to get into a car where Tony let Peter have full control over the music. Peter’s number one music choice—for _whatever_ reason—is heavy metal and/or rock, and with it on the highest volume in the backseat, it’s unbearable.

“You know, I love myself a good serenade,” Harry, who’s sitting on the other side of her, remarks. He blinks slowly up at the roof of the car. “But this is a bit much. If I’m not even able to hear myself think, then there’s something very wrong going on here.” 

“Look, you guys just don’t get it. Full-blast is the only way to enjoy Led Zeppelin,” Peter defends, practically yelling over the speakers. “And this song is a classic.”

“I feel like I’m working a babysitting gig that I’m not getting paid for,” Tony grumbles from the front seat, and she can see him rolling his eyes in the rearview mirror. 

Michelle sighs, glancing in Harry’s direction, noting that he’s bent over—head in his hands. “Next time, don’t invite Peter.”

“Hey!”

Harry groans. “No comment.”

Finally— _thankfully_ —Tony lowers the volume _and_ switches the station from the one only playing Led Zeppelin to one she finds much more enjoyable. However, Peter doesn’t seem to get the memo of the switch, still smirking at her.

“See? Heavy metal really is the best, right, MJ? I _love_ Led Zeppelin.”

“Dude. Stark changed it,” Harry says slowly, peering past Michelle to give Peter an incredulous look. “This isn’t Led Zeppelin.” There’s an awkward moment of silence when Tony mutes the radio entirely. “Have you only listened to one band your entire life?”

“The kid is uncultured. Don’t blame him,” Tony speaks up, massaging his temple in sheer disappointment. 

Peter blinks, a blush creeping up his neck. The expression on his face is one that can only be described as sheepish shame. “Um. You changed it?”

Michelle can’t help but snort out a laugh. “Makes me doubt your love for Led Zeppelin when you get them mixed up with AC/DC.”

“Look...they’re both rock,” Peter tries, grinning feebly.

Tony eventually pulls the vehicle into the parking lot and shakes his head. “Let’s look past Pete’s ignorance and pretend this car ride never happened. We’re here.” He turns around his seat, facing them. “Osborn, you’re with me. This meeting with Otto shouldn’t take too long.”

“I sure hope not.”

“He just wants to let you in on some important company policies. And, since you’ll be in his shoes soon enough, maybe you’ll even learn something about time management tonight.”

Harry scrunches up his nose. “I thought I was supposed to learn from you.”

“You can learn from both of us. This is called being resourceful.” Tony pats Harry on the back once they get out before guiding him towards the entrance. He stops once, only to look back at Michelle. “Please don’t let Pete get into trouble. I really don’t need any more fines.”

Michelle offers him a wry smile and one nod. “He’ll be on a tight leash.” That gets her a two-fingered salute, and then they’re gone.

Peter huffs out a breath, putting his hands on his hips. Melodramatic much. “He has such little faith in me. I’m honestly—I’m hurt.”

“Well, I certainly can’t blame him. You mixed up Led Zeppelin and AC/DC,” she reminds him monotonously. 

“Oh, boy. You’re never going to let me live that one down, huh?”

Michelle breathes out a small laugh, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Who would I be if I just let you forget?” She looks at him, and they exchange unnecessarily shy smiles. Her fingers tentatively twist with his as they walk inside. _Tight leash_ , all right.

If she’s being honest, she’s not yet sure what they are or where they stand. But, maybe that’s okay. They have the time now to figure it out.

Peter squeezes her hand as they wander around the main floor, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. There are so many scientists crowded in the room that it’s kind of hard.

And, unsurprisingly, not all of them are the most polite.

“ _Excuse_ me—coming through,” one man says gruffly, shouldering past Michelle with a box in his hands. She frowns but tries not thinking much of it. He was clearly in a rush, despite being rude as fuck. It was completely unnecessary to knock into her with the minimal space they’re occupying.

“Dick,” Peter whistles under his breath, his gaze following the man.

Michelle furrows her brows, bending down to pick up an abandoned badge on the floor. “I mean. You’re not entirely wrong. His name is Richard, apparently.”

“Richard lost his badge? Karma.” He clicks his tongue in mock-disappointment.

“I should probably give this to the front desk.”

“Wait.” Peter grasps her arm, swiveling her so that she’s facing the direction he’s pointing. “He’s right there. Just give it to him. Maybe throw in a little... _if you hadn’t been in such a rush_ …”

Michelle can’t help but laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Petty much? It’s not that big of a deal.” She starts heading in the scientist’s direction with Peter trailing behind, but they quickly lose Richard after turning a corner. All they see is a long expanse of a hallway. 

Peter eventually shrugs and leans against a locked door, arms crossed. “Well. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

“You’re right.”

“So...how long is Harry’s meeting?” He glances briefly at the watch on his wrist before meeting her eyes.

“It won’t be too long. All I know is that Octavius wanted to let Harry in on certain specifics. They’re confidential and apparently stressing him out, so...I don’t know.” Michelle shrugs, frowning at the thought. She knows it comes with the job, which is why she’s glad he has Tony to help out.

“Oh. That sucks. I mean, Oscorp is kind of sketchy at times, but...I don’t really know what can be done about that.”

“Speaking of management, how far along is that lab of yours?”

Peter’s expression brightens at the mention. “Oh, they’re actually starting construction this weekend. I’ll still be working at Tony’s lab until it’s done, but I’m really excited. Apparently, I get to design the interior. _Me_.”

“Good grief. You don’t know a thing about color palettes, Parker,” she jokes while also being one-hundred percent serious.

“That’s why I’m glad I have you,” he says without thinking—clearly. Otherwise, his face wouldn’t look so comical. “Not that...not that I _have_ you. We’re not...I mean, not yet. And—obviously, not in the literal or even figurative sense…”

Michelle raises an eyebrow, amused, while simultaneously trying not to redden. “If you want my expertise, I’ll gladly offer it.”

Peter nods, giving her a tiny, sheepish smile. Very cute. “Okay. Okay, cool.”

“You gonna miss your old lab?”

“Honestly? Not really,” he admits. “I’ll miss my old coworkers, yeah...but they were happy for me. And, you know, I have enough self-awareness to be happy for me, too. New York is more my home than California ever was...and it is _really_ nice to be back.”

“So you’ve said,” Michelle remarks, feeling her lips curving up without her permission, though she doesn’t really care. 

Peter mirrors her, uncrossing his arms. “No harm in reiterating myself.” He leans forward, just a little, his hands hesitantly finding a place on her waist. She leans forward, too, almost subconsciously, but before anything can happen, the door behind them suddenly unlocks and they’re both stumbling.

It was probably a sign, Michelle thinks, knowing that doing _anything_ in Oscorp’s hallways would get them some heat. She looks down at the badge she’d carelessly clipped to her belt loop.

“I think that was my fault.”

“This is why my lab is going to have biometric locks...so _that_ doesn’t happen by accident,” Peter says, a little breathless. They both take a moment to look around the room, and Michelle immediately wants to leave. “The hell was Richard working on…?”

“A nightmare of some sort,” she exhales, closing her eyes. “Come on. Pretty positive this is for authorized personnel only.”

“But these look so cool, MJ.”

Michelle shakes her head, vehement, eyes still closed. “No. If this is what goes on behind closed doors here, I’m not coming back unless Harry fucking excavates this room.”

“You think they’d notice if I took one as a pet?”

“Don’t _touch_ anything—”

“What are you guys doing in here?”

Michelle turns around, immediately wincing as she hears Peter curse behind her. And then glass shatters. _So much for that promise to Stark._

“Nothing,” Peter says, his voice ten octaves too high. He clears his throat, hands shoved in his pockets. “Uh, where...where are…?”

“Stark and Octavius are talking,” Harry answers slowly, jabbing his thumb towards the main room. He narrows his eyes. “Did you _break_ something?”

“No?”

Michelle sighs, taking Harry’s hand and immediately slapping the badge into it. “Sorry. I’ll buy you dinner this week if you just...pretend we didn’t completely lose our common sense.”

Harry scrubs his jaw before sighing. “Hurry up—get out of there. We’ll just close the door and...boom. We were never here in the first place. I don’t even know who the hell this Richard guy is, anyway.” He pauses and then looks at Michelle. “Delmar’s sandwiches?”

She shrugs. “Thanks for choosing something cheap.” They all step out of the room, and it locks again. “Did your...meeting go alright?”

“Yeah. I guess. Stark did most of the talking,” he says, frowning a little. “Probably for the better.”

Michelle offers him a small smile. “I mean, yeah. But, you’ll get there.”

Harry smiles back, bumping her shoulder lightly. “I appreciate you.” He ducks his head and starts walking ahead of them, more of a skip in his step. She admires his diligence.

Peter appears at her right, absently rubbing his wrist. “He’s going to be a good CEO, I think.”

“He just helped us sneak out of a room we weren’t supposed to be in,” Michelle reminds him before chuckling slightly. “But, yeah. You’re right.” She pauses and then furrows her brows, a little concerned at the look of discomfort on his face. “You okay there, Parker?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing it off. 

Michelle doesn’t believe him. “Are you sure?”

“One-hundred percent.” Peter gives her a reassuring smile, slipping one hand into hers while the other goes back in his pocket.  
  


* * *

  
“You threw up twice on the plane, Parker. Are you sure you don’t have a stomach virus or something? Because you never get airsick,” Michelle says slowly as they step into his old apartment.

“No. I’m fine,” he says _again_ , but he’s paler than usual and there’s a slight sheen to his forehead. “Just feeling a little...weird, I guess. But, like, we couldn’t have waited any longer to come down here. Pretty sure my old landlord is going to start throwing out my stuff soon if we don’t get it packed.”

“Well, yeah. It’s bad enough that you put this off for a week _after_ canceling your lease early. Stark already had to bargain in your favor for her to drop the civil lawsuit.”

“Whoops.”

Michelle rolls her eyes and lugs the rest of the empty suitcases inside. “Do you think we’re even going to have enough space? You have a lot of...shit.”

“It only looks like that because it’s messy.”

“Tell me you didn’t bring me here to sift through your dirty clothes.”

Peter smiles slightly. “‘Course not. I brought you because of your wonderful and heartfelt personality.” A thoughtful beat passes. “And also because I’ll only have to do half as much work.”

“Ass.” She pauses and then squints at him, brows furrowed. “Dude, you’re shaking. Do you want me to pick you up some medicine? Because you look like you have a fever. Or, worse, the flu.”

“No, no, that’s okay. Seriously, I’m—” _Cough_. “Fine.”

Michelle blinks at him, eyes narrowed. “Sure.” She grabs the apartment keys out of his hand before turning back towards the door, preparing to leave.

“MJ, where are you going?”

“We spent a whole six-ass hours on a plane. You spent at least two of those hogging the bathroom to puke your guts out, so I’m taking an educated guess and saying we’re both really hungry. Well, I am, at least. I’ll be right back, Peter.”

“Wait, I’ll come. I am...sort of hungry, and you don’t know the best takeout places in the city, anyway,” he tries, but she shakes her head.

“No. You either have to rest or get to packing because this apartment looks like a fucking tornado blew through it,” she tells him firmly. “And only having three days down here might be pushing it.”

“But, _MJ_ ,” Peter stresses. “It’s...it’s dark out. It’s late.”

“I’m aware. Don’t worry, I have this little...pepper spray keychain.” Michelle opens the door and gives him one last glance. “I’ll be back soon with Thai for you.”

He eventually nods, offering her a small smile. “Be careful.”

She smiles back before stepping into the hallway. “Will do.”  
  


* * *

  
By the time Michelle returns with two bags of takeout—excessive, maybe, but necessary—and a bag from the nearest convenience store, she finds that Peter has crashed on the couch, snoring quietly. She frowns slightly and approaches him, kneeling down.

When she places her hand against his forehead, she sighs. Definitely burning up.

“You’re back,” he mumbles quietly, cracking his eyes open.

Michelle stands back up, shaking her head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” She trudges over to the kitchen table, depositing the takeout. “Still hungry?”

“Yeah.” He sits up, waiting patiently for her to bring their food over to the couch. “Thank you.”

She makes a noncommittal sound, digging into her noodles. They don’t say much, too preoccupied and hungry, but he will occasionally nudge her foot with his. She bumps his shoulder back in retaliation. It’s obligatory.

“By the way. I got you medicine,” Michelle says, her mouth full with lo mein. “And don’t even try playing that ‘ _I’m fine_ ’ card because you’re really fucking hot.” She pauses, wincing. “Warm. Burning up.”

“Pretty sure you meant the first thing,” Peter jokes, poking at his pad thai with a fork. 

Michelle rolls her eyes, feeling a little warm herself. “Okay. Whatever the case is, you’re taking it—if not for yourself, then for me. I spent fifteen bucks on this medicine.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I _really_ don’t want you vomiting your Thai back up,” she mutters.

Peter nods, lips folded inward. He starts fiddling with a loose thread on the couch, a nervous tick she recognizes. “So, um...I, uh...I was thinking...when we get back to Queens...would—would you maybe want to—”

Unfortunately, he’s suddenly cut off by a sharp knock on the door. His shoulders sag but his head whips up at the voice.

“Mr. Parker! Are you in there?!”

“Shit. It’s the landlord.” He curses under his breath as another knock sounds and then a whole flurry of them. “Oh, god. Just pretend we’re not here.”

Michelle raises an eyebrow. “Responsible.” She glances over at the door, thoughtful. “Peter, I think—”

“ _Shh_ ,” he immediately hushes, cupping his hand over her mouth. Immediately, she’s indignant, and Peter at least has the decency to look apologetic when she narrows her eyes at him. 

“Mr. Parker, I know you’re home!”

“She can see the light on under the door, dumbass,” Michelle tells him, just a little annoyed. His expression snaps into realization and then defeat. He sighs, muttering _fuck_ under his breath before standing up to answer the door.

The conversation between Peter and his landlord is loud and obnoxious—mainly because she won’t stop yelling. He keeps trying to apologize, promising he’ll be out as soon as possible, and she keeps cutting him off.

The landlord ends up leaving by slamming Peter’s own door back in his face. That has him walking back to the couch with a frown, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“We should...finish packing,” he says, quiet.

Michelle pats his shoulder in condolence as she stands up to throw their trash away. “Can’t finish what we never started.” She reaches for the remaining bag on the table and pulls out the grape-flavored liquid that probably tastes like shit. “Take this first.”

Peter groans, throwing his head back. “Fine.” He practically stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light, and she goes into his bedroom. The clock on his end table says that it’s nearing midnight. 

_How much are they really going to get done?_

“Are you almost finished?”

“This stuff is disgusting,” he calls out and then comes back into the room, nose scrunched up. “I’m never taking that again.”

“Don’t be a baby. That was the only flavor they had,” Michelle says, monotonous, throwing a shirt at him that was just lying on his unmade bed. He catches it with a sigh.

“So...I figured that you can get whatever is in the drawers since that stuff is clean and already folded. Everything else...I’ll throw in the wash real quick and then put it away. Hopefully, we’ll have enough suitcases.”

“Okay,” she agrees, her tone level, giving him a barely perceptible nod. And, yet, she doesn’t make a move to get started. The question of _why_ is thrust upon her, both by herself and Peter. He shoots her a look, perplexed.

“What? Did you want to take the pictures off the walls...or something?”

“No. I mean, I can do that after getting the...clothes, but...” Michelle trails off, still not moving, and at this point, she knows why. “Uh, I was just wondering...what were you going to ask earlier? Before your landlord interrupted.”

“Oh. Uh...you can just forget about it. It was nothing,” he says after a prolonged beat, biting the inside of his cheek.

Michelle frowns, finally finding it in herself to move as she shuffles closer. Her knee knocks against his mattress. “Are you sure it was nothing?”

Peter opens his mouth and then snaps it closes again. It takes a minute before he finally whispers, “No. I just…”

They’re almost face-to-face, standing with a poor excuse of a foot between them. She can feel her heart beating in her ears. “Spit it out, Peter.” 

His eyes flit across her face, searching. He doesn’t say anything, not at all, but his expression speaks for itself the moment he finds what she’s finally willing to give. 

The clothes he had in his hands fall to the floor in abandonment. It plays out like a movie on half-speed, the way Peter cups her cheeks, eyes not leaving hers until they do—until they flutter closed. His lips find hers in an instant, and at that moment, Michelle goes from balancing on the edge of a precipice to falling. 

She grasps his arm to steady herself, pressing back with just as much vehemence. It’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses, and she’s glad that never changed.

At that point, Michelle really is falling—backwards—but somehow, gravity is keeping her in his orbit. Peter presses two more kisses against her mouth before pulling back, only slightly.

“Okay, so...imagine that...but during the date I was planning to ask you out on when we got back.”

“I told you to just spit it out,” she reminds him, unable to bite back her small, sincere smile.

“Well, I thought I was pretty clear right then and there,” he jokes, helping her straighten up. “But, um, in case I wasn’t...would you maybe want to...go out with me? To dinner sometime?”

Michelle snorts, lightly bumping his shoulder with hers. “Drop the maybe, and it’s a yes.”

“Go out with me?”

“Eloquent.” A beat passes. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Peter’s grinning, his arms wrapping around her waist slowly but surely. She feels her cheeks warm up, especially as he kisses her again. His forehead rests against hers this time. “Should we be doing this? I’m going to get you sick.”

“It’s too late to back out now, Parker,” she says with a quiet laugh, kissing him this time.

“Good,” he mumbles. “God, I’ve missed you.”

Michelle smiles, her heart full in that very moment. “I’ve been around. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Me, neither. Never again.”  
  


* * *

  
Michelle wakes up to lips pressed against her forehead, and she cracks an eye open to see Peter hovering over her. He gives her a brief smile and mouths _be right back_. She merely nods, turning her face back into her pillow.

But, now that she’s awake, Michelle doesn’t know if she’ll be able to fall back to sleep. The second her brain latches onto a thought, her mind runs with it. 

Though, honestly, she doesn’t really care. She’ll humor her mind this time because it’s not often that her own happiness keeps her up.

Michelle rolls onto her side, eyes closed, inadvertently thinking back to the moment that Peter had first texted her all those weeks ago. She thinks about how she was so full of regret after responding, wishing that it could be taken back.

And now, she finds that she doesn’t regret a thing. Not fake-dating Harry, not going on that double-date with Peter and Felicia—not even the arguments that nearly tore them apart.

Because if she looks at where she is now, Michelle will easily admit that the way she currently feels is worth all of the shit she’s gone through.

Michelle knows that if she thinks about it for too long, her brain will turn to mush. She sighs heavily, eyes flitting across Peter’s darkened bedroom.

They really didn’t get that much packed the previous night.

About ten minutes pass of her just staring at the mess before she starts wondering what Peter could possibly be doing at five in the morning.

Almost reluctantly, Michelle slips out of bed, already feeling the cool draft of his apartment. She opens the bedroom door and trudges to the kitchen, knowing she’s practically half-asleep.

Which is why she has to do a double-take when she finally sees Peter. Michelle squints, rubs her eyes, trying everything to wake herself up completely. Either it isn’t working, or what she’s witnessing is very real.

When Peter notices her, his lips part in surprise. “Um. MJ.” He releases a quiet, awkward laugh. “As you can see...I’m kind of having a small problem.”

Michelle has to inwardly repeat _no regrets_ like a mantra, if only to remind herself _what_ and _who_ is making all of this shit worth it. She scrubs her jaw, slowly closing her eyes. 

“Peter. How the _fuck_ are you on the ceiling?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say no Spider-Man? Yes.
> 
> Did I lie when I said no Spider-Man? Maybe a little.
> 
> Anyway, that wraps this story up :) this journey made me realize how much I love writing angst—
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!


End file.
